The Christmas Compromise
by WitchesOfOz
Summary: A dull Christmas silence has fallen over 221B. While John accepts it, Sherlock is bored and insists that nothing but a thrilling case could make him feel like Christmas. It proves difficult to get Sherlock to do all the Christmas trivialities and make it more than a tolerated distraction. But when a convenient murder requires his skills, Christmas seems irrevocably neglected.
1. A Christmas Promise

_**AN:**_ _Fellow readers! This is our Sherlockian Advent calendar gifted to all of you who are hopelessly sherlocked. Although it will only have 12 windows, which means that we will update the story every two days, we hope that you will enjoy our little Christmas treats as much as we enjoyed writing them! Have a nice Christmas time everyone!_

 **Summary:** _A dull Christmas silence has fallen over 221B. While John accepts it, Sherlock is bored and insists that nothing but a thrilling case could make him feel like Christmas. It proves difficult to get Sherlock to do all the Christmas trivialities and make it more than a tolerated distraction. But when a convenient murder requires his skills, Christmas seems irrevocably neglected._ _  
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* * *

 **The Christmas Compromise**

 _Chapter I. A Christmas Promise_

On Christmas Day, John got an unexpected call from work. He thought it might be an emergency, but eventually it was just Sarah Sawyer being nice. He could have appreciated it, hadn't he been in a train, next to Sherlock, who shot him a dismissive glare.

"Listen, Sarah" he said hastily, "I am honestly happy you called, but I believe this is not the right time… can I call you back?" She gave in without hesitation and the call was broken, leaving John with a heavy heart. He would have liked to talk to her and cutting her short like that seemed dreadfully impolite to him.

"What did she want?" Sherlock asked, giving John that inquisitive, observing look. He bowed his head, his elbows resting on his thighs, while he propped his chin on his entwined fingers; his eyes were probing.

"Oh, just asking me how I spent Christmas Eve, nothing more." John's answer was quick. He was still sulking – a really bad habit. Yet, he should know better than to be angry with his partner. Sherlock had done his best and to be fair, he didn't deserve being blissfully ignored while John would have a chat with a person, who wasn't even there. Mobile phones had the potential to ruin relationships, really.

There had been chaos as usual and yes, Sherlock had proven quite accurately how well-versed he was in forgetting everything over a case study. But he had fixed it, hadn't he? He had fixed it and in the end it had been…

"Nice. You said it was nice…" Sherlock said calmly after a while. "Did you mean it?"

Taken aback, John stared blankly, his mouth agape but he closed it instantly as he noticed. Sherlock's tone was more caring than he would have thought him capable of.

"Yes… yes of course."

"Would you have anticipated it?"

John didn't know what to make of the question, but Sherlock had never been one to read easily, his motives mostly unclear to everyone but himself.

"To be true… No…"

For a heartbeat, Sherlock looked as if he might be offended, but then a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It spread into a grin and finally became a chuckle; his eyes were framed by those joyful wrinkles. It didn't take long for John to cling to the ease that washed over him and join in Sherlock's childish chuckles.

* * *

 _Advent 1_ _st_ – Mrs Hudson had kindly asked John (them – she had asked _them_ , Sherlock _or_ John) to attach the Advent wreath to the front door. She stated that she was quite aware of being delayed in doing so, but according to her, the reason was simply that she had been hesitant to ask him _or_ Sherlock to do it for her.

"You know, I am just not as good with attaching things as you are" she had said apologetically.

But John did it gladly. Gladly indeed, after bargaining about it with Sherlock. John was good at that, he had no problems with manual work, for his fingers were nimble and subtle enough to attach a bloody Advent wreath to a doorframe. Despite the cold, he had it fixed in a matter of minutes.

Cursing silently, he closed the front door. There was no snow but he thought to himself, that it was certainly cold enough for snow. Still, John declined Mrs Hudson's offer to make him a cup of tea after she had thankfully squeezed his frozen fingers. Sherlock was certainly in need of company – but he wouldn't get up from his chair.

"Sherlock?" John had left the door upstairs slightly ajar, but still he didn't receive an answer. Of course not. Growling he finally shed his jacket and opening and closing his cold fists, he climbed the stairs to their shared flat.

John wouldn't need to point out repeatedly that, according to Sherlock, it was his task to tend to all kinds of domestic work. It mattered not whether it was doing the groceries, cooking or tidying and cleaning up the flat. Sometimes, John faintly wondered, how Sherlock would organise his everyday life, when left to his own devices and additionally, how Sherlock had managed his household before John had come around. Having Sherlock positively using him as a handyman, however, was bothering him, as a matter of fact, but something seemed to prevent him from bargaining and complaining at every possible moment. One could say, John had come to terms with it at some point, as he had seen that discussing with his flatmate fell on deaf ears in the majority of cases.

When John entered the living room, Sherlock still hadn't moved as much as an inch. It was baffling John, how Sherlock could be so restless and agitated, burning with eagerness and almost hyperactive on some days and then again so lazy, tired and demoralised on others. He was even dozing off occasionally, refusing to eat or to leave the flat – in every way, his current state should be decidedly worrying. But John had stopped worrying at some point. He tried to be content with the idea that Sherlock's mind and body would simply go into Standby after a long period of working constantly without any satisfying break. It would only be natural. The battery that was his mind needed charging from time to time. But on the other hand, John thought, Sherlock was more like a working tool, lying still and untouched until it was to fulfil its next task. John was just glad that, for now, his boredom didn't make Sherlock get any ideas. John should see to it that it stayed that way.

"Sherlock, you really can't go on like this!"

Silence. The air was stuffy, so John walked across the room to open one of the windows. The smell of roasting onions and burning them in the process was surely not to stay inside for more than two days.

"John, it's cold. Close the window." It was the first reaction he had gotten in hours and truly, John hadn't expected Sherlock to be especially sensitive when it came to draught.

"You are impossible, really!" John said, angrily, sitting down face to face with his flatmate.

"I am bored…"

John furrowed his brows. "Bored. Alright, when you're bored, why don't you just… get the groceries for a change or help Mrs Hudson with her Advent wreath?"

"That won't help…"

He didn't understand but he wasn't distressed, as it occurred to be nothing new to him. Mostly, when Sherlock was that short-spoken, he preferred to be left alone. But this time, John simply couldn't do him that favour. It had been too long. Putting his palms together, he looked at his partner: sitting still, staring, his knees pulled to his chest, his head bowed and his chin resting on one hand he had draped over his knees. His hair was tousled and he was still wearing his tartan dressing gown and blue pyjamas.

"You really need to go out…" said John with a sigh.

"And do what?"

"Christmas is approaching… We could go and see the Christmas markets soon and when the time is right, we might get a Christmas tree together… Just have a nice time… what do you say?"

Nothing. "I need a case…"

"Sherlock…" John wiped his face with both hands, exasperated, "Your existence doesn't depend on cases… You need to give yourself a break… Christmas is a case-free time, okay?"

"Christmas should _be_ a case."

Slowly, John shook his head to himself, shifting uneasily. Sherlock wouldn't agree and he was certainly doing it as a matter of principle.

"Fine…" John said, "You have any plans for Christmas Eve this year? Any invitations?"

"Mycroft will be out of country. He being unavailable makes it unlikely for me to expect any invitations…"

For once, John was glad that his sister Harry was as occupied as Sherlock's brother, since it meant that there was a high possibility for both of them to have time for one another during the Christmas holidays.

"Then we could make our own plans. The city is so nicely decorated, I really think you should see it. It might cheer you up…"

The silence that followed, was once again unbearable. John was trying hard and still it felt like Sherlock was disregarding his efforts by giving no reaction at all to his ridiculous notion.

"John, close the window, please." _Please?_ Without a second thought, John got up, scolding himself inwardly the moment he did it as he walked towards the window to soundly close it again. It displeased him that, in order to get what he wished, he felt the need to act respectful and obedient towards his companion. But frankly, it mostly contributed to something that came as close to success as it could. It was evidently beneficial to be gentle with him in a state as fragile as this.

"So, do you want to go to a Christmas market with me some time? Get a Christmas tree and all?" John repeated, carefully.

"Well, I need _something_ to do…"

"Promise?" – "Fine."

Even though, it momentarily felt like an achievement, John shouldn't have bought that right away.


	2. Attacked by a Beast

_Chapter II. Attacked by a Beast_

 _Christmas should be a case._ The next day found Sherlock much in the same position as the day before, and John caught himself close to considering somehow _getting_ his partner a case. Or a cat, to keep him occupied, but perhaps that was not such a great idea.

He had returned from work with a sigh of relief, after having to divert his attention between keeping a patient's child of four years occupied, and its mother, who, as she was being examined by him at that time, couldn't quite see to that herself. He had thought he was by now thoroughly used to answering plenty of seemingly mindless and absurd questions and could now handle the unnerving mannerism with ease – alas, it seemed he had erred. The child had left his head positively spinning.

After putting away his coat, he stopped to consider Sherlock who appeared to not have moved a muscle since John had left him in the morning. He was still lying on the couch, flat on his back and in rumpled pyjamas, with one arm almost hanging to the floor and the other flung across his eyes in a vaguely dramatic looking fashion, only he seemed by now to have dozed off. John shook his head with a sigh. He would never have considered the possibility of someone boring themselves to death, and as a doctor could even medically explain why it was impossible no matter what Sherlock at times claimed – however, if anybody came close to suffering precisely that as a cause of an untimely demise, it was a Sherlock Holmes without a case to brood over. John was starting to think that he would rather have Sherlock eager and hyperactive and distracted from anything he might wish to say than lazy and tired and well-nigh depressed with ennui. Although, if he was honest, it did sting a little, that apparently he himself was never enough to keep his partner from being bored.

Discarding that train of thought, John resolved to let Sherlock sleep for now. He had no wish to be subjected to grumbling and growling should he dare awaken him, though he suspected he would in lieu thereof hear a lot of grumbling about an aching back or neck in the near future.

* * *

As he turned away and towards the kitchen, a faint notion of a cup of tea in mind, John just barely kept from stumbling over the edge of the carpet and certainly breaking his nose on the door he had not yet fully closed when there was a loud clanging and clattering sound coming from downstairs, followed by a muffled "oh dear _Lord_ " in Mrs Hudson's voice. John lost no time in abandoning his intentions in favour of flinging the door back open again after he regained his balance. Shortly, he felt a sense of astonishment at the fact that Sherlock hadn't even stirred at the sudden commotion, but the thought fled soon enough as he hurried down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson? Are you alright?" There was no response, and for a moment he worried that she might actually have injured herself, but then the door he had just knocked on was opened before he could raise his hand a second time. The lady in question stood before him, a large, colourful porcelain-looking shard in her hand and her expression visibly displeased, although it softened slightly when her eyes landed on him.

"Oh John, I'm sorry – I'm quite fine, I didn't mean to startle you, I was just so startled myself, you understand, and..."

John had to suppress a smile at her chattering. "Mrs Hudson. What happened?"

It appeared that while trying to put up some fairy lights in her home, Mrs Hudson had accidentally knocked over a big, heavy vase that had been standing on a small stool – devoid of flowers and water, thankfully, but still John had to tread carefully for the shards were now scattered all over the floor.

Relieved that nothing worse had transpired and their landlady had stayed unharmed, he bent down to help cleaning up the mess, quickly disposing of the larger pieces of porcelain by placing them into a large bag that she provided with a grateful smile. She looked as if just seconds away from patting his head or pinching his cheek like a fond grandmother might do, and after he had carefully wiped away the remaining small pieces with a damp paper towel, she invited him to stay for a cup of tea so she might properly thank him.

"Do the two of you have any plans for Christmas celebrations?" she asked after he had also put up the fairy lights for her. John hesitated and took a sip from his cup as he considered his answer.

"Hard to say," he said finally with a shrug. "I'm planning to try and get him out at least a bit over the weeks before Christmas Eve, but... well, you know him..."

Mrs Hudson nodded gravely, although she did seem to be faintly amused. As she parted her lips to respond, however, there was what could only be described as a startled shriek from upstairs which would have resulted in the floor being full of shards once more had she not just set her cup down on the counter. _"John!"_

Since in his earlier hurry he had not closed the door to his and Sherlock's apartment, and neither, apparently, to Mrs Hudson's, the call was relatively loud and distinctly panicked. With a hasty apology to his landlady, John was out of the door and on his way up the stairs in a whirl. His mind instantly came up with half a dozen probably ludicrous scenarios about what might have happened, who might have gotten past them and through the open door and surprised Sherlock in his sleep, unable to defend himself, and John sped up to the point where he almost lost his footing on the stairs.

" _JOHN!"_

"I'm coming! Sherlock, I'm coming, what's... happening...?"

The picture that greeted him when he burst into the living room was positively absurd. Sherlock was still on the couch, tousled and dishevelled but at least with his eyes open and decidedly awake, and on his chest...

"John." Sherlock's voice was deliberately calm as he stared unblinkingly into a pair of large green eyes. "There is a cat on my chest. There is a _cat_ on my _chest_."

Not quite believing that this was the fact that had his partner so panicked, there was not much John, who was still panting from his sprint up the stairs, could respond with. "I can see that."

" _Put it away!_ "

The cat, a small, fluffy calico, appeared entirely unaffected by its newly found pillow's alarm as it curiously patted Sherlock's cheek with a tiny paw before planting all fours firmly on his chest again. From there it proceeded to softly knead its claws into the fabric of his pyjamas and the skin beneath, purring loudly as it nuzzled its face against Sherlock's chin. Sherlock himself appeared to be in a frozen state, stiffly holding both of his hands as far from the little animal as possible and by now having clenched his eyes shut, angling his head away from the pink and black nose.

John sighed deeply. "It's not going to hurt you, you know," he muttered, exasperated, but nonetheless made his way towards the couch. "It's a pet cat, not a tiger. Where did it even come from?"

"I don't know. Put it away," Sherlock repeated instead of an answer, his voice half muffled by a cushion, and John snorted and picked the cat up, to the obvious relief of his partner.

"Oh dear, I am so sorry!" Both of them turned their heads at the exclamation, and Sherlock finally deigned to sit up properly on the couch with a small groan and a wary glance towards the cat, now purring innocently in John's arms. "She must have sneaked out while we were talking," Mrs Hudson continued as she sidestepped a stack of books to take the cat into her own arms. "And she's curious, you cannot imagine, she probably just wanted to-"

"Mrs Hudson." John sent Sherlock a reprimanding look for his rude interruption which went ignored. "What are you talking about? You don't have a cat. I'd know if you had a cat."

"Sherlock, really!" She patted the cat in a soothing manner as if _it_ might be offended by the sceptical words. "I do have a cat. Since yesterday, as it happens. I even believe you might have noticed had you bothered to ever leave this flat!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a heartbeat and then leaned back, drumming the tips of his fingers against each other. "Be that as it may," he said curtly, "I don't want it here, Mrs Hudson. Do see to it that the beast leaves us alone up here."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, and then turned towards Mrs Hudson. "I'm sorry, just ignore him. It's a, uh, lovely cat." He was not much of a cat fan himself, but found that that was by no means a reason to be as impolite as Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson seemed to mind it little, though. She merely uttered another apology for the cat's intruding, thanked John for his assistance downstairs, and sent Sherlock a chastising glance before taking her new furry friend back down again.

* * *

"Don't say a word," Sherlock muttered from the couch. He was holding a cushion in front of his face and looked to be contemplating the merits of going right back to sleep. "It's a horrible cat. It left hair in my nose. And in my mouth."

Sitting down next to him, John pulled the cushion from his grasp. "You'll survive. When I heard your screaming I thought you were being attacked."

"I was!" John's eyebrows lifted at the sight of pouting lips. "And I didn't _scream_."

"Of course not."

"No."

"Mhm."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. A few seconds passed without either of them making an attempt of speech.

"I hate cats."


	3. Umbrella

_Chapter III. Umbrella_

John had been living with Sherlock for long enough by now to be wary of packages that had no obvious sign as to their sender on the wrapping. He was, by now, automatically expecting anything from a letter bomb over a severed hand to faked ransom notes written by people who read his blog and wanted to get any kind of reaction from the famous Sherlock Holmes, even if it was a mere "piss off".

Therefore, the long, slim parcel that the moody courier had just dropped into his hands could not possibly mean anything good. It was addressed to Sherlock, though, thankfully, although not by hand but by computer, with a non-descript font and possibly not even done by the sender themselves but by a post office clerk. The post mark definitely wasn't from anywhere in England.

At least it wasn't ticking.

* * *

John shook himself as he noticed what he was doing. His flatmate apparently was a bad influence. The package was clearly addressed to Sherlock, so Sherlock ultimately was the one who would have to deal with it and its contents. John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock could tell the sender from the ink used for the post mark.

With a sigh, John set down the parcel against the wall and made his way to Sherlock's room. He had locked himself in there a few hours ago, mumbling something about everything being incredibly dull and annoying and having to think about something, but John suspected he just wanted to either continue to sulk in peace, or he indeed wanted to sleep and it was his way of making certain he wouldn't wake up with a cat using him as a pillow again. Although, John did recall having heard something shortly after Sherlock's disappearing – something that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock might have been pounding his head against a wall or a desk. He had seen him do that once before, in fact, and had decided not to ask this time. Not asking made his life decidedly easier at times.

"Sherlock?" He vaguely wondered why he spent so much time knocking on closed doors of late, in various stages of worry for whoever was located behind them. In this particular case, aforementioned someone gave an unintelligible grumbling sound that by no means could be interpreted as an answer but at least told John that he wasn't sleeping. "There's a package for you, no sender. If it's a bomb or a chopped off arm, do me a favour and open it far away from here."

That, at least, seemed to warrant a response, slightly muffled by the wooden door. "How would I know if something like that is in it?"

"I don't know. Shake it and tell from the sound it makes? Or perhaps you actually _ordered_ chopped off body parts?"

"If it actually _is_ a bomb, shaking it would likely result in both of our lives ending way ahead of time. Stupid idea." Sherlock's voice had gotten slightly louder, and the end of that dry declaration was punctuated by the door's lock clicking open. "And if I need body parts, I merely have to flutter my eyelashes at Molly."

John did not dignify either of those statements with an answer, nor did he in any way react to the dark look Sherlock was giving him for interrupting his brooding time.

After a surprisingly small amount of incoherently muttered complaining, Sherlock followed John to the main room where he instantly grabbed the package and flipped it over once before examining it, causing John to flinch – which was likely the purpose behind doing it, judging by the smirk that was quite visible for just a moment. Once again, John chose not to comment.

"Ugh." Sherlock was regarding the parcel with a faintly exasperated, disdainful expression, almost as if it had just personally insulted him while John hadn't listened. "And here I'd hoped he had forgotten it this time."

"Who had forgotten what?" As Sherlock hadn't even begun to open the thing yet, John found himself unable to understand what had him so vexed, just from looking at it. Apparently, he already knew who had sent it nonetheless, but John couldn't really claim that that was a surprise.

Sherlock made an ugly snorting noise. "It's Mycroft's Christmas present," he said lackadaisically, and started tearing the wrapping without further explanation. He only stopped when John reached out and grabbed his arm, causing Sherlock to look down at him impatiently. "What?"

"It's not Christmas yet," John said, and Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes, so he elaborated: "You should wait until Christmas Day. Unpack everything at once, and not each thing as it arrives."

Sherlock pulled a face and made a dismissive hand gesture. "He always gets me the same thing anyway. He probably thinks he's being funny, but that's because he has the sense of humour of a piece of bread... oh look, it's a big one this time. I'm never going to fit that one into my drawer, what was he _thinking?_ "

While he spoke, he had proceeded to completely unwrap the package and carelessly let the packaging drop to the floor, ignoring John's reproachful glare, and now he held in his hand – an umbrella. Admittedly, it was a very big umbrella indeed.

"... Mycroft gives you an umbrella every year for Christmas?!" Instantly, John was picturing Sherlock assuming what had to be Mycroft's favourite pose, leaning on a dark umbrella and occasionally swirling it around. It was not an appealing image.

"Yes, he does. It seems he's under the impression that either everyone loves umbrellas as much as he does, or otherwise it's simply that he thinks I'm incapable of recognising clouds as a sign of impending rain. I have a whole drawer full of these things, and this one is _not going to fit into it anymore._ It's huge!"

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at Sherlock's apparent irritation, and looked aside so his amusement wouldn't be too obvious. His gaze fell onto the discarded packaging. "There's still something inside," he noticed, causing Sherlock to throw him a depreciative glance.

"I know. The weight wasn't evenly enough spread for it just being an umbrella, and besides I heard the sound it made when it hit the floor."

Since Sherlock evidently was too busy scowling at his newest umbrella, it was left to John to pick the small, cubic parcel from the floor. Other than the main package, it was wrapped in surprisingly colourful paper and did indeed look like a Christmas present. Of course, before John could even open his mouth to suggest that Sherlock leave at least this one wrapped until Christmas, the umbrella was already leaning against the wall and the present had left his hand, the air filled with the sound of paper tearing.

The noise subsided, and Sherlock's face seemed undetermined between a frown and a grin and something else that John couldn't quite make out. The paper had revealed a small cube made of 27 smaller cubes in various colours. A Rubik's Cube, unsolved.

John thought that, in general, such a thing to tinker with was a good present for Sherlock Holmes. There was only one problem. "You already have one of those, don't you?" He had seen it lying around on the desk, an even more difficult version than this one. _Click._ "The one with the numbers..." _Click. Click. Click._ "This Sudoku Cube. You never even use it." _Click. Clickclickclickclick-_ John trailed off as he realised that Sherlock wasn't even remotely paying attention to what he was saying, instead busying himself with solving the cube as if it were the only way to save the universe. And, indeed, if it was, then Sherlock had managed it masterfully, for the cube already sat, solved, in his palm. John could only gape at it in astonishment. He had heard of how fast some people could solve these things, but he had never before seen anyone do it. He knew, had he attempted it himself, it would have taken him at least the better part of an hour.

"Catch." Reflexively thrusting out his hand, John was only just quick enough to prevent the Rubik's Cube from tumbling to the floor before he turned to Sherlock, scowling uselessly. "Mess it up again, if I do it myself, I'll just remember my movements and that would ruin it."

"What about the Sudoku Cube on your desk?" John asked while his fingers curled around the colourful edges and manipulated them into a random pattern. Sherlock threw him a glance and strolled towards the couch, flopping down onto the cushions and leaning forward in an anticipating fashion. His fingers drummed a rhythm on his knee, quick and impatient, while John followed him more slowly.

"What about it?"

"You could get that one too. It would probably take you a little longer to solve..."

He could hear Sherlock's refusal before he even uttered it, simply by looking at his less than enthusiastic expression. "I'd still have it done in a matter of minutes. I want this one." As was indeed quite palpable, for as soon as John sat beside him, Sherlock was already snatching the cube away again. It made it a little bothersome to speak with him, since John now had to speak over a quick succession of clicking sounds.

"It looks a little worn already. How old are the umbrellas that he gives you?"

"New. Why would he give me old umbrellas?" The cube returned to John's hands.

"Just asking. The cube isn't new, is it?"

"Oh. No, it's not. Actually, it's ages old... gimme." John handed the cube over again. "Mycroft stole it from me when I was... twelve? He was probably jealous because I was better at it than he, and he never gave it back. Apparently, he decided he doesn't need it anymore now, half a lifetime later... there, mess it up."

John took the cube and considered it. He wondered if Sherlock even understood the somewhat nostalgic impression the old toy seemed to give off, now that John knew where it came from. The almost childish delight he could glimpse in his eyes while he clicked the pieces back into the correct order, after completely disregarding the much more challenging Sudoku Cube, seemed to confirm it, but John decided not to say anything about it. He likely would not have known what to say anyway.

Sherlock took it again.

"...I think you just broke the world record or something."

"Should I care? Come on, mess it up again."

"Sherlock..."

"Please?"

* * *

It was almost an hour later before John finally managed to escape Sherlock's unwavering ardour. He left him on the couch organising and disorganising the Rubik's Cube himself now while John concerned himself with getting rid of the various pieces of wrapping paper on their living room floor, and finding a place for the new umbrella, since Sherlock's mysterious drawer appeared to be out of the question.

It truly was a huge umbrella. As he turned it in his hands and then opened it, to see just _how_ big it was, yet another piece of paper fluttered out from between the fabric's folds. Sherlock had mentioned earlier, between a lot of clicks, that Mycroft never left a note with his presents because Sherlock knew who had sent them anyway, and so John now couldn't contain his curiosity. He picked up the note.

It showed a series of doodles, matchstick men that vaguely resembled Sherlock – curly hair and long limbs, – each holding an umbrella of different size and shape than the one before, mostly with a grumpy expression. The biggest drawing set on the bottom of the page. It, too, had a matchstick Sherlock beneath an umbrella, but this one noticeably bigger, and another, smaller matchstick man stood next to him beneath it, holding a long stick – a cane? – in one hand. Both of them were smiling.

Four words were written on the very bottom of the note, beneath the last doodle. "Because now you're two."

John smiled, leaving the note on the table for Sherlock to find.


	4. It's Christmas!

_Chapter IV. It's Christmas!_

John could barely believe it, but at some point he had indeed managed to drag Sherlock out of the apartment. It had taken a fair amount of convincing, and a great number of increasingly creative threats, most of which Sherlock had merely scoffed at and proceeded to explain why, exactly, none of it would actually work. At least it had seemed to amuse him, however, and after a while, he had finally given in, if only in order to avoid his arm being pulled from its socket during further attempts at getting him to leave the couch he'd been occupying.

Not, alas, that his efforts seemed to be of much use.

* * *

"Wonderful. Yes." Sherlock wasn't even trying to appear the slightest bit enthusiastic, and John was swiftly approaching the end of his patience. He did not think there was need to behave as if this was the dullest time anyone could ever experience in their lives. Certainly it must be better than lounging around in various places of the flat and alternating between solving a Rubik's Cube and proclaiming one's unbearable tedium.

Nonetheless, John was trying up to keep up the rapidly waning good mood he had previously found himself in. "Try not to be such a grinch, would you? If I'd left you in the flat any longer, you'd have grown roots and adhered to the floor. Be grateful." Sherlock just rolled his eyes petulantly and tried to drink from the still too-hot cup of "fruit punch to go" he had insisted they acquire at a faintly shady looking booth a few crossroads back. When he burned his tongue, he looked at John as if it was his fault.

"I merely don't understand what exactly is supposed to be so great about all this." He made a gesture that was probably meant to encompass most of London, if not all of the UK. "It's bright daylight and yet they seem to think it's too dark, judging by all the lights they felt the need to switch on, and there are people. Everywhere. Literally." John had to concede that last point, at least, if only because even while he was talking at least two people ran into Sherlock with a mumbled apology. Though of course they ran into John at least as much.

"The lights are pretty, and since it's winter a bit more light doesn't hurt, I think," he said, to which Sherlock grumbled something about a "waste of energy". "And we're not here for the fairy lights."

"Why _are_ we here? I'm not sure you told me."

John sighed. "I have. Repeatedly. We're shopping for Christmas, and then we'll get a tree, and then we'll go back home."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Ah. Well, then. Since the shopping is done, let's just go get the needle thing and be done with it, shall we?"

John had to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He restrained himself, if barely, and instead threw a pointed look towards the single, small plastic bag he was holding. "I wouldn't count buying a Christmas tree top ornament Mrs Hudson asked us to get for her 'shopping'."

"What else would we need?"

"Mrs Hudson is not the only person in England to celebrate Christmas, you know. And she asked us to get this for her, it's not a Christmas gift."

"Do we need to-"

" _Yes_ , Sherlock, we do need to get her a Christmas gift."

"She's our landlady."

"Yes, and she plays our housekeeper while she keeps telling us she isn't, and she doesn't even complain when you leave bags of blood in the fridge. She deserves a present."

"Well, where else would I keep the blood if not in the fridge? I doubt you'd be happy if I kept it on the dinner table. And besides, that would ruin the whole purpose of keeping it fresh."

"Not the point. Stop trying to distract me."

"It's not trying if it works."

"It's not working."

"Are you sure?"

" _Sherlock._ "

"Oh, fine. Get her a cat carrier. Or a cat leash. Or, I know, get her a big dog that will terrify the cat into staying under the bed forever, then it certainly won't come up to surprise me anymore."

John lifted his arm a little and succeeded in jabbing his elbow into Sherlock's rip. While he received a very disgruntled glare in response, at least it inspired him to cease his nagging for a little while.

* * *

The next two hours passed in a surprisingly peaceful manner. Sherlock still appeared to be bored beyond measure, although John was positive he was exaggerating on purpose, but at least he didn't complain every other minute and even came up with some non-sarcastic suggestions regarding presents and Christmas plans.

Advent season in London was beautiful, even though there still was not a single snowflake in the air. Despite having seen it nigh every year, John did not think he would ever get entirely used to the breath-taking sight. The sky was darkening in the afternoon already, overcast by grey clouds that unfortunately still refused to spill their soft, white tears onto the Earth, but it was as Sherlock had so morosely remarked – there were lights shimmering in all corners, on the houses as well as above the streets, they did seem to be everywhere indeed. Colourful at times, but most of them white and blue, they seamed drip rails and lampposts, melted down the outside walls of various houses and shopping malls, as well as their insides which often were overflowing with decoration, to which Sherlock had declared that it came close to being frightening, how much gold and red humanity could cram into such little space and still call it pretty instead of a design disaster. In this case, John was inclined to agree. He much preferred the outside decorations himself.

One in particular, though, achieved the formidable feat of leaving Sherlock baffled for the entirety of five seconds while he examined it from below. "I swear," he said, absently steadying John after he had run into Sherlock because he had simply suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement, "I _swear_ it's him, and I swear he's doing it to annoy me. I can't find any other reason why anyone would come up with something like this."

John followed his unimpressed gaze and peered upwards, squinting against what little sunlight managed to fight its way through the clouds. Right above them was the floating, fragile looking construct of an umbrella frame, laced instead with fabric with a net of brightly glowing fairy lights and surrounded by two similarly designed wrapped presents. He had an idea what Sherlock might be referring to, but frankly, the idea was absurd. "What's wrong with it?"

Judging by the glower his partner sent him, he didn't think the idea absurd at all. "Don't pretend to be a higher level of stupid than you are, that's a bad idea for about anyone for obvious reasons. Does he have nothing better to do with his free time?"

"You don't actually think Mycroft is spending his day off from being the British government convincing people to put up fairy light umbrellas in London in the vague hope that you will see one of them and be annoyed by it?" John highly doubted that statement had any probability to it, no matter what Sherlock's opinion on the matter turned out to be.

Of course, it turned out to differ substantially from John's. "I wouldn't be surprised. And really, who else would get that idea? An umbrella has nothing to do with Christmas, as far as I'm aware."

John shifted the plastic bags he was holding from one hand to the other and considered simply grabbing Sherlock to pull him away from the offending piece of ornamentation. "It could have a symbolical meaning," he offered. "Like... like seeking shelter from something beneath the umbrella. Christmas is, theoretically, about religion after all... and even if that's not it, it could still be symbolic."

"I want to see you take shelter beneath an umbrella made of fairy lights. It wouldn't even keep a single snowflake away..."

At that, John did grab Sherlock's sleeve with his free hand, choosing to give up on explaining the glowing umbrella in the sky since his partner evidently wasn't willing to accept any possibility besides his own suspicion, which John had no intention to let become his own. "You also think he puts the traffic lights on red wherever you are every time you're in a cab."

"Well, he does!" Sherlock's coat made a dramatic flapping sound as he turned sharply and resumed walking. "I know how the traffic lights work, and they turn red when they're not supposed to. He can deny it all he wants, but I know it for a fact."

Perhaps he was right. John shook his head. Prolonged exposure to the brothers Holmes was likely to drive him to paranoia in the near future. With a soft sigh, he checked his watch. It was time to release his friend from the torture of Christmas shopping for today. "What do you say, we go get the tree and then return home?"

Unfortunately, the end of his sentence was rudely interrupted by a ringing noise coming from Sherlock's inside pocket, loud enough to predominate even the noise of traffic and people around them. As opposed to John's own phone that sometimes was barely audible even just being located in another room, which he really did not deem fair in comparison.

Either way, after a quick glance at the screen Sherlock had the device pressed to his ear without even attempting to answer John's enquiry. " _Please_ tell me it's a case, something interesting, someone murdered Santa Claus or aliens have abducted the Queen. Yes?"

John's heart sank as Sherlock, listening to his dialogue partner on the other end of the line, started to look up and down the street in a searching fashion, likely looking for a cab to hail. He tried to keep the disappointed frown from his face while watching the other's eyes light up in beginning excitement, before the phone was replaced in the pocket with an elegant motion and two nimble-fingered hands caught his shoulders, squeezing enthusiastically. "Lestrade needs me, someone's been murdered – apparently in a way that completely baffles the police, he didn't elaborate much beyond that, said we should come by. Hallelujah, seems like it's actually Christmas indeed!"

 _Not yet_ , John was tempted to say, but knew it would be pointless. Sherlock was already waving wildly at an approaching cab. Trudging behind him, John had the persistent feeling that their actual Christmas plans were on their way of being well and truly ruined.


	5. A Tedious Ride

_Chapter V. A Tedious Ride_

The cab ride turned out to be a rather unpleasant event, to say the least. John let himself be ushered into the car by a very impatient Sherlock, who followed right after him before John had even managed to scramble over to the seat on the opposite side to make room for his partner.

Sherlock, of course, barely even noticed. He gave the bored looking driver – John had made it a habit to always make sure he knew what their cabbies looked like even though he had no idea how that knowledge would ever be of help – curt instructions, _St. Bartholomew's hospital, quickly,_ and then settled into his own seat with an air of profound distaste for the wait that was in store. It was astounding how very impatient this man could be at times, while he so often tested other people's patience by making them wait simply because getting up didn't suit his fancy at a particular moment.

The driver set the indicator and weaved back into traffic. John was just beginning to be grateful that he didn't appear to be of the talkative sort, which likely would have caused extreme impoliteness from Sherlock, when instead of with meaningless chatter the small space soon filled with the intrusive sound of _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ from the radio. Next to John, Sherlock breathed out harshly through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. One of his hands balled itself into a fist where it lay on his knee while the other drummed an aggravated rhythm onto his thigh.

John shot him a warning glare before he could open his mouth to speak. "Let it be," he hissed lowly. "You'll survive a cab ride with Christmas songs. It's not that far."

Sherlock's face assumed a strange expression at that, somewhere between peeved and amused, and his eyes rolled heavenwards in such an exaggerated manner that John was certain it had to bring forth a headache.

"Christmas songs like this are one of the most obnoxious and vexing excuses for music that mankind has ever created," he declared, and John was only appreciative of the fact that Sherlock kept his voice at an equally low level. He knew for a fact that Sherlock generally held no resentment against Christmas songs and even played them himself occasionally on the violin. Indeed, as he carried on, the hint of a smirk on his lips told John that this was merely complaining for complaining's sake. "The lyrics are illogical and clumsy, forced into abhorrent sentence structure because of an irrational need for the last words of two lines to rhyme at all costs. Not to mention that half of the so-called songs' content today is childish nonsense – a reindeer with a glowing nose, _please_ – while the other half consists of poorly hidden sexual implications. I really don't understand why people love it all so much, it's absolutely ridiculous."

John had to suppress a grin. _Then how the reindeer loved him, as they shouted out with glee: Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, you'll go down in history..._ It really did sound clumsy and made little sense if one thought about it, he had to admit. Nonetheless he decided not to contribute further to this particular discussion.

"We're still going to get a tree and all, right?" he asked instead, mostly to distract Sherlock from the fact that it appeared to be "only Christmas songs" hour on the radio channel and they had just started playing _All I Want For Christmas_ by Mariah Carey. "Just because you got a case doesn't mean you're getting out of that."

He fully expected the answer he received, which was a half unintelligible grumbling about the uselessness of most holiday items in general and chopped off trees with coloured glass balls in its branches in specific. But he was not about to give in.

"We could just-"

"You know, I have an idea," Sherlock interrupted suddenly, with a glint in his eyes. John waited. "We'll stop celebrating holidays. We'll just start celebrating cases instead, that makes much more sense. We can put up some dead branches for every murder, and Lestrade gets a biscuit every time he gets something right without having to try 17 times. Anderson gets one for every second he doesn't annoy me with his presence."

"He'll starve," John muttered with a snort, deciding to postpone the discussion about their delayed Christmas plans until after the visit at the hospital. Sherlock's attention quite obviously was caught up in other matters already. "So what did Lestrade tell you so far?"

Sherlock's eyes sent daggers in the cab driver's direction for a moment as the radio host loudly attempted to distribute the Christmas spirit by uttering a thoroughly fake laugh before he turned back to John to respond. "Not much, as I said. Young female corpse, strange autopsy results – seems there's water in her lungs for no apparent reason, at least not apparent to the police. She was found quite a distance away from any water source, not even a puddle nearby."

"Maybe she was drowned somewhere else and then deposited there for some reason?"

"That would most likely have left traces not even Anderson could be blind enough to miss. At least, I hope so. If Lestrade made it sound all mysterious and I just get yet another boring five-minutes riddle... Oh, he better _pray_ that it's not boring, he can't hold me responsible for my actions if it is..."

* * *

Shortly after, Sherlock immersed himself in thought, frowning at nothing and occasionally huffing at whatever new song would resound from the speakers. It left John to silently ponder to what extent he would have to reorganise his – _their_ – Christmas plans, now that Sherlock was in his very own version of the holiday spirit which regretfully differed notably from what most people conceived as such. Sometimes, living with Sherlock proved one of the most frustrating experiences one could make, and still, if given the opportunity, John wouldn't have traded him for anyone else. Every now and then, it made him be concerned about his own sanity.

Perhaps they could connect the case with Christmas, somehow. They could go to a market after inspecting the crime scene, or maybe they'd have to investigate at a fir tree sale...

* * *

John was jarred out of his idle musings by a sudden outcry in Sherlock's voice which caused their driver to respond with a startled yell of his own while he tried not to jerk the steering wheel to the side with shock. "Bloody hell, do you have a death wish or something?!" he panted, more startled than angry still. John stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, his heart hammering in is chest.

Sherlock, of course, was unaffected. "Hell no," he repeated his earlier words, more evenly this time. "Switch off that radio. I've tolerated the hubbub from the thing so far, but that's enough now. I will _not_ suffer listening to... to _this_."

The radio was innocently playing _Last Christmas,_ and the driver gaped at it for a few moments before he switched it off obediently, appearing slightly dazed. All the rest of the way, he kept sneaking glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, as if he was afraid of what his passenger would do next. John felt an intense longing to sink into the padding of his seat and declare he had no idea who the person sitting next to him was.

Needless to say, the cab driver was quite relieved when he finally delivered them to their destination, despite the generous tip John gave him for his troubles.

* * *

Before they reached the entrance doors, John reached for Sherlock's coat sleeve and pulled him back. "Could you maybe not do that again?!"

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "Do what?"

"Give a cab driver a heart attack because you don't like a song the radio is playing. Or actually, give anyone a heart attack for that matter." It was surprisingly difficult not to give in to the urge to smile at Sherlock's irritated expression.

"Oh, please. If he's that jumpy, he has the wrong job, clearly."

John sighed. "Just don't do it again. What's so bad about the song anyway? You could live with all the others." In his opinion, _Rudolph_ would have justified that kind of reaction more than _Last Christmas._

Sherlock pulled his face into a deep frown that looked as if it might stick if he kept it on for too long. "Other than the fact that it isn't even, technically speaking, a Christmas song? Alright, let me explain-"

"Okay, forget it," John interrupted hastily. He really didn't need a lecture on Christmas songs right now, and he took pains to blatantly ignore Sherlock's satisfied grin. "Just do me one favour."

"...yes?"

"If they play _Last Christmas_ in the hospital, don't freak out. Just ignore it. There are people with weaker hearts in there than that cab driver."


	6. The Hyde Park Mystery

_Chapter VI. The Hyde Park Mystery_

Usually, John didn't like coming here. The St. Bart's Hospital was, according to him, nothing but a huge, grey, distasteful block with far too small windows. It reminded him of his time at the military, where he would reside at such atrocities, mostly during the dreadful time of being injured. Furthermore, coming here either meant that someone had been killed – as it was this time – or that Sherlock would get lost in fanatic endeavour, mumbling to himself in an attempt to gain expert advice on some criminal, chemical masterpiece he was determined to unravel, while expertly forgetting everything and everyone else.

This time, John was simply relieved that he could escape the cab and eventually, Sherlock's complaints about the driver's radio programme. The moment his companion himself had entered the hospital, however, he seemed to have forgotten that fraught incident and was instead beaming with child-like euphoria while quickly ascending the stairs. It was just as if his life had a purpose again, he had shed his boredom like an old skin and he was fit as a fiddle and almost inappropriately excited. But this wasn't new to John. He knew Sherlock Holmes too well to still be appalled by his eccentric behaviour.

He followed him up the stairs, shaking his head and smiling to himself. His mind gave him contrary opinions. On one hand, he was delighted and happy to see his friend so active and evidently rejoicing. On the other hand, he suspected that their Christmas plans were in great danger. This wasn't the right time for a case. Yet, for Sherlock, there was no time, no date, no holiday that would be inept for a case. He knew no boundaries.

Soon, the two of them found themselves in the room they had been called to. They both knew the St. Bart's Hospital almost as well as their own flat and moved through the hallways and corridors with the same implicitness as they would at home. John thought to himself that one could indeed almost call the mortuary Sherlock's second living room, as he liked staying there almost as much as staying in his own.

"How long?" _-until somebody found her? -has she been dead?,_ Sherlock asked immediately after dashing through the doors, as usual without wasting time for a greeting, his coat dramatically floating in behind him. His demand left just as much time for Lestrade to utter an "Ah…" upon his arrival. John felt unpleasantly ignored.

"Walkers found her in Hyde Park this morning, not far from the road. Said it looked more like she has had an epileptic seizure. Her name is Sandra Spiegelmann, as we've been able to identify, and she has recently turned twenty years old."

Sherlock had already strolled over to the body on the stretcher, walking around it, observing the young woman meticulously. To him, Lestrade's voice probably seemed like an informative podcast in the background. While Sherlock observed, John had stopped to look around the room. To his surprise, Molly Hooper was present, just a blurred figure in their midst, but she discretely and respectfully left the room after smiling at John and greeting him with a whispered "Hello". When the doors closed behind her, John's eyes followed her shadow on the milky glass windows and he noted that she sat down on a chair right next to the door.

"You said autopsy revealed that she has water in her lungs" said Sherlock after a while, "How come?" John turned his head and walked across the room to join his companion's side.

"That's what we've been hoping you could tell us…" Lestrade responded.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, narrowing his eyes, "I will need a blood sample, as well as one of that water. But for now…" His gaze never left the body when he matter-of-factly put on rubber gloves. John was just next to him, Lestrade on the other side of the stretcher, while Sherlock's fingers traced the young woman's blouse. It turned out that it was more wet than damp, but that didn't say much as she had been lying on the grass all night. But opening her blouse and pealing the coat off her shoulders and décolleté revealed bruises, exactly the size of male fingertips. Sherlock's expression darkened in concentration.

"What was in her handbag? Her coat?" He straightened to face Lestrade.

"Not much, actually." Sherlock was led over to a small table. The few belongings Sandra Spiegelmann had had with her last night were spread there, like precious objects in a museum. Among them was a purse – bank card, no cash – an umbrella, a watch which wasn't ticking, a package of ataractics, a pocket calendar with a black pen and a small photograph. The photograph showed two brightly smiling children in what looked like a dark living room. Sherlock took the photograph and turned it.

"I suppose you took her mobile phone for retracing her calls?" Sherlock asked, never ceasing to look at the photograph.

"There was no mobile phone." Lestrade informed him, appearing quite distressed.

"No mobile phone? Interesting…"

Keeping the picture in his hand, Sherlock elaborated, "Obviously, the young woman wasn't planning on going out, as there is no cash in her purse. It seems likely that she was on her way home from work, yet her things do not give us any clue where she could have been working at, although it's clear that she cannot be a student. Considering her clothes, I would say she was some company employee. She's been wanting to get a new battery for her watch, or she wouldn't carry it around in her handbag, but she never got around to it, which means that she starts working early and stops working late. The ataractics say that she was probably under extreme stress and pressure and emotionally troubled. Last night, while she was on her way home, she got violently assaulted in Hyde Park, as deduced from the bruises on her arms and chest area. Now, the photograph… two children, certainly not her own children, as she is far too young. The children are approximately fourteen and nine years old. Also, the picture seems quite old – the corners are snapped off and it's crumbled. The older face resembles hers, so I assume it's our victim. Who is the other child? It could be a friend, but that's unlikely. Looking closer shows that they have the same light hair, the same arched eyebrows and a similar lip shape, which means that it can only be her little sister. Why would she keep such an old photograph of herself and her sister in her handbag? One possible explanation would be that her family doesn't respect her and she hasn't seen her sister for a very long time, but still misses her." Sherlock turned the photograph. "But look what we've got here. 'Never forgotten' and 'I'm sorry' written next to it with a pen. Conclusion: her sister died when they were both very young. It was likely an accident and partly or fully her fault. That says a lot."

Upon Sherlock's unparalleled detailing, Lestrade's astonishment was clearly legible in his features; for merely a second, before he realised it and evened his face. John couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a common reaction to his companion's descriptions, although one should assume that Lestrade was used to it by now. Still, Sherlock easily managed to flabbergast the Detective Inspector anew with every chain of evidence he so skilfully presented. John, too, caught himself thinking that Sherlock was proving once again how plainly brilliant he was. But Sherlock didn't seem to care much, as he didn't bother pointing out how idiotic he and Lestrade were to him, which was close to the only sign of flattery he could display.

"At first," Sherlock said, finally breaking the silence, "you must contact her therapist."

"What makes you think she had a-?" Lestrade was rudely interrupted, "Her sister died in a tragic accident when they were children and it was undoubtedly her fault, of course she had a therapist! Ask her pocket calendar if you don't believe me."

Lestrade's stare told John that for now, he simply went with believing Sherlock's words. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't waste his time with analysing the detective's expression. Instead, he returned to the body, signalising John and Lestrade to follow him.

"John", said Sherlock, "I need your medical opinion…" He bent over the corpse, his eyes summoning John to do the same. Some more observation needed to be done.

While not being half as gifted in this regard as Sherlock, John would as usual do his best not to disappoint his partner when it came to deduction and observation. He could even claim that, by now, he knew how to examine and had learned where to draw his attention. John furrowed his forehead in a concentrated fashion, focussing on the young woman's appearance. Her face, her figure, her skin. He could feel Sherlock's anticipating gaze and only by a hair could he prevent himself from uttering how irritating it was for him. When he finally spoke, he kept his eyes on the body.

"Well, she is pretty skinny and haggard. She's got bags under her eyes but she didn't use make-up to conceal them, which could mean that she might be stressed indeed and on top of all has troubles sleeping… Maybe it also hints that she was suffering from depression… or at least some other mental or personal stress."

"Clearly, it hints that she was still traumatised." Sherlock interfered instead of expressing approval. But John had found that being disappointed about Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm upon his observations did him more harm than good. He sighed.

"Still, a few questions remain" Sherlock pondered out loud, "Why did this have her end up in Hyde Park, seemingly drowned without water in range and who is the murderer?"

"Exactly…" Lestrade said with a chuckle, but he went ignored.

A far-off, dreamy expression fell over Sherlock's eyes as he shed the rubber gloves, putting his palms together for a second.

"Do you have any ideas?" Lestrade asked, carefully.

"Oh, plenty," Sherlock responded with a smug grin. Eventually, he started moving and as John realised where he was going, he followed him. Already on his way to the door, Sherlock exclaimed, "Lestrade, send me those samples, as soon as you have them. Blood and water. Find out as much about her as possible. Family, working place, therapy, anything. Oh and, don't lose her pocket calendar, it might prove to be of help!"

Leaving Lestrade no time to react, Sherlock rushed through the door and he would have continued strolling down the corridor, never reducing speed and making it quite a challenge for John to keep up, if Molly hadn't stopped him. Even John had already forgotten, that she had sat down in front of the room and if he hadn't, he still wouldn't have anticipated her to wait for Sherlock to return. She was firmly holding a small package, neatly wrapped in red, green and golden paper and her expression didn't hide well how nervous she was.

"Sherlock?" she said, softly seizing his arm. He clearly flinched at the unexpected touch.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked brusquely, pulling back his arm. His disapproval was notably audible in his voice and John was about to scold him for it, but Sherlock was in a hurry and it was decidedly unwise to disturb him in such a case.

However, his indignation had put Molly at a loss and for a moment, she just stared at Sherlock, her lip quivering, while Sherlock's eyes impatiently urged her to elaborate.

"Uh… I know, it is not Christmas yet," she said, her voice thin and insecure, "but I didn't know when I would see you again, so I thought I might as well… just give it to you now…"

Her hands were shaken by a slight tremor as she tentatively held out the package to Sherlock. Lifting one eyebrow in surprise, Sherlock pocketed it without even trying to guess what it might be. John could tell that Sherlock hadn't expected a present at all and neither had John.

"Well… Merry Christmas…" Molly said with an uneasy smile.

For a moment, Sherlock looked at her as if his brain was trying to fit this peculiar occurrence in a familiar setting or trying to put it into a context, so he would figure out a proper reaction. Likely, he was even making an effort in doing so, as if afraid he might hurt her by being too harsh. Then, he simply gave her a numb, "Thank you, Molly" and turned to leave without another word.

John felt the need to stay. "I'm sorry, you know he doesn't mean it like that…" he said, hoping to chase away her hangdog expression. She sighed deeply. Then she turned around to pick up another package that had been lying on the chair next to her.

"Don't think that I have forgotten about you, John…" she said, placing the present in his hands.

"Oh, thank you… You really wouldn't have to…" he stopped, not sure how to start and too surprised to continue. Luckily, Molly interrupted his attempts of speech, "I hope you'll have a nice time. Merry Christmas…"

"Merry Christmas, Molly." John returned her warm smile and passed the present from hand to hand. It felt like a book.

He was just about to leave when Molly called after him, "John?"

"Yes?" He turned his head.

"Try to get him out, okay?"

It gave him a sting, because it reminded him that their Christmas plans were certainly bound to fail. "I suppose, I am left to try…" he said, not without noting to himself how much Molly still cared about Sherlock.


	7. The Cat and the Burette

_Chapter VII. The Cat and the Burette_

In the days before Sandra Spiegelmann was found dead, John had forewent to realise what great importance Mrs Hudson's cat seemed to have gained in Sherlock's lonely hours. Sometimes it had sneaked up, had come through their open door and into their rooms and while John had mostly ignored it or sent it back, he had found himself quite surprised at the sight that had occasionally greeted him when coming home from work. He had seen Sherlock, seemingly busy, sitting in front of his microscope, all the while absent-mindedly feeding the cat with their very own ham or bacon and eventually leaving John the job of getting some new.

According to the obvious despisement Sherlock had shown to the cat at their first encounter, John had thought he would do best in simply never letting it cross Sherlock's path again. But Sherlock had come to terms with the cat unexpectedly fast and without further complications. Although he never actually petted it or stroked its head, it was evident that he didn't hate it as much as he claimed and he appeared almost glad that it kept him company every now and then. Still, he refused to admit it to himself and whenever John had found him casually feeding the cat while staring into his microscope for no obvious reason, he would say that he simply kept it distracted so it wouldn't disturb his study. John had mostly prevented himself from asking why Sherlock hadn't just sent the cat away, as he believed he might know the answer already.

* * *

After that hour at the mortuary though, it didn't even take until dawn for Sherlock to fall back into the stillness he preferred to maintain when brooding over a case. John caught himself thinking that, to him, it wouldn't make much of a difference whether Sherlock was silent due to demoralisation and exceeding boredom or the process of pondering was the cause of his reticence. Still, he liked to entertain the idea that it was much safer to know that Sherlock Holmes had a thrilling discovery in sight than to leave him fully exposed to his destructive tedium. One could say that John felt considerably lighter when leaving 221B for work the next day, knowing that Sherlock had a task to fulfil and wouldn't end up doing something dangerously foolish.

When he returned, he found Sherlock sitting at his table once again, this time immersed in some chemical analysis. He didn't even raise his head when John entered the flat, putting down some groceries – some bacon as well – he had gotten on the way.

"Ah," John said, still panting from climbing the stairs. "Did Lestrade send the samples?"

"Indeed," Sherlock hummed as a quick response, dripping some fluid – considering its colour, it was a small dose of the blood sample – on a microscope slide. His attitude made clear that he didn't wish to be distracted.

In a way, Sherlock's dismissive behaviour angered John. The fact that Sherlock kept taking John's efforts for granted and deemed it natural that John was responsible for bringing groceries and wouldn't need any assistance with unpacking them and putting them away was certainly an issue that needed to be discussed at the earliest convenience. For now, John went with accepting the given circumstances and unpacked the groceries all by himself. It was frustrating to know that Sherlock wouldn't have been any more willing to assist his flatmate in the past days. As established earlier, it didn't matter whether he was lazy or intent upon solving a case, he would always have an excuse or simply pretend that he was free from any duties – and it had never been in John's power to convince him otherwise.

"Well," John said, hoping he would receive a reaction, "What do you think about getting a Christmas tree tomorrow? The sooner, the better, don't you agree?"

John was well aware that it was far too early for getting a tree and that they would likely have troubles storing it until Christmas Eve. But while putting jam and bacon into the fridge, he thought to himself that they might better get the job done as soon as possible, because he was certain that Sherlock's case study would not allow him to take the time for something as trivial as that in the following days. However, John feared that Sherlock might already be in that state of ignorance, where nothing and no one could ever be more important than his current task.

He found his worries confirmed, when Sherlock gave his response, never lifting his gaze from the microscope. "I'd rather not do that tomorrow. That has to wait."

"Oh… of course. Alright." John tried hard to contain his disapproval.

After he had placed a carton of milk in the fridge, he closed it with a conscious thud and when he turned to make himself some tea, he noticed a faint movement in the area of the living room chair. When he looked closer, he found that the cat had entered their flat again – without permission, one might add, even though John couldn't be entirely sure. Maybe it had been there all night, unseen and unheard, or maybe Sherlock had let it in while John had been absent. Be that as it may, John was momentarily unwilling to deal with the cat and therefore decided to take care of his tea instead.

The moment he stopped paying attention to their little visitor, however, there was the sound of breaking glass and when John looked again, he saw the cat dashing across the room and hiding under the sofa, scared off by Sherlock's furious cry.

"I'm going to kill that bloody cat!" Sherlock growled, slowly rising from his chair. His fists were clenched and there was _rage_ written all over his features.

"What happened?" John asked, but the moment he did, he saw the cause of the uproar lying on the carpet in pieces.

The cat must have jumped on the table, likely hoping to get some bacon, and in the process it had obviously knocked down some chemical equipment.

"It broke my burette! That damn beast broke my burette!" Sherlock seemed about as enraged as surprised, as if he hadn't realised or simply forgotten that the cat had even been around.

"John…" there was a tint of delusion in Sherlock's voice as he took a few steps away from his home laboratory. John lifted his head at the sharp addressing. "Get me your gun, immediately! I need to _shoot_ -"

He was interrupted, "Woah, Sherlock, calm down… okay?" At John's words, his flatmate put on an enigmatic expression and it was impossible to state whether he was getting calmer indeed or simply closing in his wrath.

It was beyond John, how Sherlock could get so tremendously upset about the loss of a single item John hadn't even seen him use frequently.

"You weren't possibly serious about shooting the cat, were you?" John asked, carefully.

Even though Sherlock's answer remained simply burying his face in his palms with a suppressed groan, John could guess that he likely wasn't, since he would have risked breaking their landlady's heart, had he acted upon his affect. One couldn't claim that Sherlock would have entirely understood the meaning of the cause, but seeing Mrs Hudson unhappy still seemed to move something within his core.

At that thought, John heard someone climbing the stairs, evidently agitated. "Boys, I heard screaming, is everything alright?" Mrs Hudson stopped in the door, as well carrying a paper bag of groceries. She must have been at the store and returned to the unpleasant sound of the commotion.

"As it is, yes, it's just-"

"Mrs Hudson" Sherlock interfered, shrugging up his dressing gown that had slipped off his shoulder. John couldn't help but think that his apoplectic state made him appear like a defiant child. "Would you mind very much if I were to kill your cat?"

"Sherlock…" John hissed.

Taken by surprise, Mrs Hudson kept silent, gazing up at Sherlock's stoic face in confusion.

As John assumed that Sherlock wouldn't care to explain his ire, it was once again left to him to give an account of the recent occurrence.

"Apparently, your cat has accidentally broken one of his chemical devices."

"Burette" Sherlock corrected, "It has broken my burette and I am quite certain that you both don't have the faintest clue how expensive said item is!"

"Oh dear" said Mrs Hudson, her face showed honest guilt and dismay as she peeked at the broken glass that was spread on the kitchen carpet.

* * *

Eventually, it was left to John and Mrs Hudson to pick up the pieces from the floor. She had insisted on helping John, although he had assured Mrs Hudson that there was absolutely no need. As for Sherlock, he had returned to his chemical analysis in his childish stubbornness and intently pretended that John and Mrs Hudson weren't in fact rummaging at his bare feet.

After they had put away the vacuum cleaner, Mrs Hudson shooed the cat downstairs and John noted to himself that this had been the second time within a few days that he and Mrs Hudson had cleaned the floor from shards.

Before she left, she turned to John and said, "I've just been to the bakery and I thought, I'd give you this…" She unpacked two generously sugared croissants and placed them on the table. Sherlock kept staring into his microscope, undoubtedly indifferent.

"Mrs Hudson, you really don't have to-" John started with an uneasy smile, but she simply said, "I insist!" and returned to her flat. It was clearly her way of apologising for the discomfort she had indirectly caused.

The moment Mrs Hudson had left, however, Sherlock grabbed one of the croissants and took a bite, the sugar snowing down on his lap.


	8. The Christmas Market Surprise

_Chapter VIII. The Christmas Market Surprise_

There was no improvement as to Sherlock's mood and attitude the following day. Nothing could stop his zeal once the working fit was on him and he would keep brooding, now and then uttering phrases and asking questions that could only be rhetorical, as John would not even dream of understanding the way Sherlock was attempting to spin the threads together.

As it was, John was glad to be able to escape the torpor Sherlock was occasionally seized by. He went to work, as usual, and he knew that, due to some odd habit, Sherlock would continue thinking out loud and casually talking to John without actually realising that he was absent.

With a sigh John stared at his steaming cup of coffee and wiped his eyes. Thinking of Sherlock, whilst sitting in his office still made him feel uneasy even though he tried to remain convinced that it was safe and wise to leave him to his task. He was aware that, as long as Sherlock wouldn't directly demand his help, it would be of no use to ask him out or otherwise distract him by speaking about anything other than his current study.

Still, when he returned home, he deemed it worth a try to ask Sherlock to go out on a Christmas market with him, as they had arranged earlier. But his suggestion was declined in the rudest of ways, when Sherlock ostentatiously took his violin, placed it in his lap and said, "It's marvellous that you seem to have time to spare for such simple forms of entertainment. Obviously, I am currently not available for that primitive source of fun, so if you will excuse me, I have to think!" With this he started plucking the strings of his instrument to show John that they were done.

There was nothing John could do about Sherlock's rejecting manner and as he knew that discussing and showing offence would find no response, he determined it a wise decision to leave his flatmate some space. So he simply declared that he was in need of fresh air, grabbed his jacket with a huff and soundly closed the door as he left to shut out the violent and certainly purposeful scraping of Sherlock's bow.

In the end, John was all alone on a bustling Christmas market. He could have called Sarah and asked her to join him, but he knew that she was usually still in her office at dusk and under no circumstances did he want to miss all of this on Sherlock's behalf. Frankly, he had to admit to himself, that there was no one else he could have asked for company without feeling awkward, so he accepted with a sigh that his only remaining option was staying alone.

While walking across the crowded market, John tried not to dwell on Sherlock's current mood too hard and therefore let Sherlock ruin the merry atmosphere without actually being around. Instead, he noted how brightly the carousel shone against the darkening sky, he watched the wide smiles of the children who rode the carousel horses and absent-mindedly returned their smiles. Half swallowed by their cheerful laughter, there was a tune, _Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!_ Resuming his walk, John peeked at the handmade Christmas balls, the woodworks and the blue sparks in the bare trees around London Eye. He closed his eyes at the odour of candles and soap and he considered getting Sarah one of those perfumed candles for her office table.

He had almost forgotten Sherlock's obnoxious behaviour, almost found himself filled with that clichéd glee Christmas time was said to spread among the people, when a tartan deerstalker caught his attention. It sat on a hat stand in one of the fairly illuminated stalls – and it inevitably reminded him of Sherlock.

* * *

Surprisingly, it didn't serve to bring back the anger. John rather found himself standing apart at the grey wall, gazing at the restless Thames, looking out for blurry reflections of Christmas lights in the inky water. He gnawed at chocolate dipped strawberries on a stick, feeling cold and lonely. When he turned to throw the empty wooden stick in a rubbish bin, he spotted a tall, dark-haired figure fighting his way through the crowd, one steaming cup in both gloved hands.

"Cold and lonely?" Sherlock asked with a wry smile. He handed John a cup. As he hadn't thought of taking gloves, the porcelain was pleasantly warm against his frozen palms. Secretly, John felt his spirits lifted upon Sherlock's arrival, still he refused to return his smile.

"Is that an apology?" John took a small sip of his hot drink. It was pomegranate punch. Sherlock didn't respond and left John silently marvelling about his motives. What did he want? What had he done? He simply hoped it wouldn't turn out to be one of Sherlock's peculiar experiments.

Shoving the thought aside, John asked, "Well then, how did you find me?"

"Elementary", Sherlock stated, "We've been debating about going to a Christmas market earlier, it was evident that you would end up visiting one. I know from experience that your favourite seems to be the one around London Eye. Also, I know that you aren't one to enjoy being without company for too long, so I assumed you would already consider leaving by the time I arrived and I would therefore find you rather at the edge of the market. Obviously, I was right."

"Obviously," John gave back with a sigh. Contemplating his companion, he leaned back against the wall. Sherlock wore his long, black coat buttoned up to the collar against the cold; a rare sight. When he put the cup to his lips, his eyes were vacantly staring into the distance, his brows drawn together in thought.

"Did you make any progress with your case? Any conclusions?" John asked, carefully. Originally, he had wanted to refrain from addressing the matter, but he couldn't quite contain his curiosity, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't have come if not for some subtle demand for help or a satisfying discovery. When Sherlock elaborated, however, John was surprised to find that it was neither.

"Lestrade gave me the results of his research. Apparently, the sister died in a snow slide under the most tragic conditions. The therapist wouldn't reveal much about Miss Spiegelmann, just that she could never quite come to terms with her guilt and the loss of her little sister still traumatised her. Now, the water in her lungs cannot be an effect of drowning, that's clear, so it seems obvious that the murderer actually suffocated her. I thought he might have used snow, but as we haven't had any snow yet, it certainly must have been something else…"

John nodded, "Hm," he swallowed down a sip of punch, "So you haven't found anything?"

"Not really," Sherlock said, not a bit distressed. Then he finished his punch in one gulp, as if he was in a hurry. "Mind if we walk around?" John had almost suspected that Sherlock was trying to distract from talking about his study, hadn't Sherlock's usual eagerness and ambition forbidden such a notion. It seemed nearly astounding that his visit was indeed a mere social one – in case John hadn't missed anything.

* * *

After they had returned their cups and Sherlock had received his deposit, they strolled across the market together. Keeping their usual pace turned out to be quite a challenge, due to the mass of people, all fighting their way in different directions. At Sherlock's obvious discomfort, John asserted that the crowd certainly must have grown, since he could still move around without difficulty merely twenty minutes ago.

Even through all these people, John's eyes were still drawn to the deerstalker he had found earlier. He stopped to look at it, considering the softly checked pattern and the bright colour. Expecting a depreciatory comment, he reached out to pinch Sherlock's sleeve. "Sherl-" His fingers touched nothing but cold air. Sherlock was gone. He must have wandered off unnoticed, while John had been distracted by the characteristic hat.

Instead, John now found himself surrounded by the crowd, stopping and moving, a mass of unfamiliar coats and backs. With a groan, John fought his way through them, in order to find that one back he would recognise, slightly irritated by the fact that Sherlock would even resume walking mindlessly, when John stopped.

He was just about to give up, when someone grabbed his shoulder. "John!"

"Oh, thank heavens!"

Sherlock straightened, "Take my arm. And don't let go." he said in a commanding tone.

John did as he was told without hesitation, just to make sure he wouldn't get lost in the crowd a second time. He curled his hand tightly around Sherlock's forearm, letting him stride ahead, leaving the crowd behind and eventually winding up in the shade of London Eye.

"Want to go for a ride?" – "Oh, I don't mind."

* * *

They stood side by side, gazing at the hoard of gold that rested at their very soles. Big Ben proudly stretching towards the night-sky in his amber dress, a sparkling fir tree at his front. The majestic tree at Trafalgar Square, this year festooned in snow white. The Tower Bridge, a single, glowing ornament across the dark Thames. The broad streets of London, each lighted not only by street lamps, but by glowing snowflakes, wrapped presents, Christmas stars and even umbrellas, as they had already established earlier. (John still doubted that it was Mycroft's doing but as Sherlock seemed childishly convinced, he hadn't alluded the topic a second time.) It might sound cheesy, as John wasn't one to fancy that kind of beauty, but he had to admit that it was indeed a stunning view.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, quietly.

Sherlock however, never easily impressed by trivialities, gave no reaction and as John turned his head to look at him, he wasn't able to make much of his blank, unaffected expression. His body was merely a silhouette in the poorly lighted glass cabin, yet the gold of London reflected in his eyes.

"Yes," John chatted, looking back, evidently enchanted by the sight. "Just add a little bit of snow and it would be truly perfect. Well, right now, the only snow you will find is the artificial snow in the Snow Centre."

"What did you just say?" Sherlock was now facing John, his features lighting up as if hit by a flash of wit.

"Artificial snow…" John mumbled, beginning to see what he had just revealed by remarking something seemingly pointless.

"Oh, that's brilliant, John! Brilliant!" Sherlock's reticence was broken, he had thawed from his frozen state and was now agitatedly pacing up and down the cabin.

"They had a break-in at the Snow Centre, just three days ago. At first I didn't attach too much importance to it, had almost forgotten about it, but now… It fits!"

The breath-taking view grew dispensable. Neither of them uttered another word until they finally got out of the glass cabin and left the promenade in a haste.


	9. The Snow Centre

_Chapter IX. The Snow Centre_

Just when the clock had become the most interesting gadget in the room, the mobile phone that John had put on the edge of his office table gave a persistent buzzing sound. As the door hadn't opened in the last ten minutes and there were no more patients on his list for today, he allowed himself to check his inbox. He had a vague notion of who might have texted even before he looked at the screen and found his suspicion confirmed upon reading the following text:

 _Need your assistance. Where are you?  
SH_

Considering how particular Sherlock usually was about every minute (every inch, every millilitre), John would have expected him to know without a doubt that John would still have to hold out in his office for another twenty-eight minutes. However, furrowing his brow, he typed a response:

 _You know exactly that I am still working._

Upon putting down his phone with a sharp sigh, John found himself irritated and actually quite displeased at the fact that Sherlock even took the impudence to expect John's instant assistance while he himself had categorically postponed all the social activities he owed John as a result of a definite promise. According to that matter, John was most disinclined to help Sherlock solve whatever problem he might have and thus, a second message followed merely two minutes after the first:

 _By the way, I will finally get a tree after work. Whatever you need me for will have to wait._

Having sent the text left John with a kind of self-satisfaction. The following minutes were spent waiting for an objection, but to John's surprise there was none. Sherlock simply didn't send another text, which was, as a matter of fact, very confusing. Normally, he would take every opportunity to point out eloquently that there could hardly be anything of greater importance than his current study. Receiving no such reaction was an unusual occurrence and therefore positively worrying in many ways.

* * *

John found that leaving the office after a day as unspectacular as that brought even more relief than ending his work after an eventful day. Surely, more work was decidedly more exhausting, but at least it served to keep boredom at bay. When he finally walked out on the street, he was filled with a blissful ease according to the fact that he was released from his tedium and could furthermore move his legs again, which had grown stiff from sitting through the past hours. Patiently and orderly, he turned his head to the left and to the right before crossing the street and walking towards the next underground station in range. He had calculated that the most economical way of purchasing a Christmas tree would require taking the tube to the fir tree sell, but, to avoid having to carry it around all too much, taking a cab back. Of course, he had considered that taking the cab wouldn't allow him to get a big tree but rather a small one that would easily find space on the back seats and also wouldn't get the cab dreadfully dirty.

Before John could actually enter the underground station, however, he caught sight of a familiar figure, casually leaning against a street lamp, which caused him to reduce his speed by half a step, almost stopping his walk entirely. He pulled a face that was meant to express genuine confusion and inspired his vis-à-vis to give him a smug smile.

"So, are you joining me?" John asked, when they eventually descended the stairs side by side.

"Sort of," Sherlock gave back, pocketing his right hand.

Thankfully, there weren't many people waiting at the station, which allowed them to stand near to alone. Upon Sherlock's silence, John was left to ponder his companion's motives once again. It was likely out of the question that Sherlock had miraculously realised that his behaviour had been outrageous in more than just one way which had made him feel the need to redeem his impertinence. Yet, John found himself unable to come up with any other sensible reason and as said reason had to be clearly excluded in Sherlock's case, he would simply have to wait for the true and possibly surprising answer.

"Seriously, this is getting weird…" John remarked after a while.

"What?" His companion seemed unaware.

"How did you know that I wouldn't take a cab?"

"Oh, that," Sherlock said, his face minutely brightening up, while he continued staring ahead, "That was possibly the easiest deduction one could make."

He didn't say much more, causing John to give an exasperated sigh. He was certain that Sherlock was intending to be mysterious.

"Enlighten me," John urged, slightly annoyed.

"Well, I know your sense of economy… Cab rides are quite expensive as is generally known, so you would try to avoid them as often as possible. Still, you wouldn't bother carrying a Christmas tree around in the tube. Conclusion: tube first, then cab."

John shook his head in silent admiration, an unbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Alright Sherlock," he said, "Are you truly here to get a Christmas tree with me? Or what is this about?"

The end of his sentence was drowned by the clattering and swooshing of the incoming tube. As soon as it stopped, the doors gave way to a few people hurrying out of the overcrowded carriages and the moment the doorways were clear, Sherlock started moving. John, still immerged in his ponderings, followed him mindlessly.

* * *

"I know why I hate the tube…" Sherlock complained vehemently after the doors had closed along with a loud warning signal and the train had left the station.

"Of course you do…"

They had fought their way to the handlebar right between the two doors and were forced to remain standing, roundly enlaced by fellow passengers. Mothers and their children, students on their way home, elderly and middle-aged men and women – and in their midst, Sherlock was visibly uncomfortable. While John was tightly holding on to the handlebar, Sherlock happened to be tall enough to reach the straps, his eyes uneasily shifting from left to right. John gloomily thought that they must have blundered into one of many unsettled "rush hours" and it nearly made him feel bad for his companion.

Up to the next station, no unpleasant incident occurred. When the train stopped again and people had pushed past them, desperate to reach the exit, Sherlock was even lucky enough to gain a pair of seats, yet John deferred to an old lady with a heavy shopping bag who had just gotten on the tube. Giving John a "Thank you, dear", she clumsily collapsed onto the seat next to Sherlock who had already sat down, as usual without wasting a kind thought on his surroundings. Having declined the seat, John now stood next to his partner and almost fell on him when the train took a sharp and entirely unexpected turn to the left. At the announcement of the next stop, the angry surprise was quite visible in John's features.

"Did we actually… get on the wrong tube?"

Instead of giving an answer, however, Sherlock insistently rummaged through his coat pockets, pulling out an item that was, at first sight, quite elusive to John. It was the old Rubik's Cube Mycroft had given back to him after he had claimed it for himself and kept from his little brother through their entire childhood.

"Are you kidding me?" John asked, his voice rather calm despite his obvious irritation.

For a while, he watched Sherlock silently solving and twisting his toy. He reluctantly confessed to himself that it had been more than headless to trust his companion right away. He should have known that Sherlock's arrival had, of course, a deeper reason than he could ever have guessed. Still, fooled by their earlier meeting at the Christmas market, he had born a spark of hope that Sherlock's intentions would be similar this time as well.

"Okay," John sighed, resigned, "Where are we going?"

"To the Snow Centre," Sherlock informed him right away, swiftly flipping the Rubik's Cube in his nimble hands.

"For the break-in?"

"The break-in, yes of course," hummed Sherlock lackadaisically, clearly showing that John's question had been fairly unnecessary.

"Well, what about the Christmas tree then?"

His companion remained silent and stared at the Rubik's Cube as if solving it required his full concentration. Sometimes, John thought, living with Sherlock Holmes proved to be exceedingly infuriating. Especially since he seemed to believe that the privilege of choosing the topics worth alluding and the plans worth carrying out belonged exclusively to him. However, John wasn't willing to back down.

"You said you were joining me…"

"Which I actually did, didn't I?"

"I hate you…"

The old lady with the heavy shopping bag stood up to get out at the next stop. She left with a merry "Goodbye" and an understanding smile. John took her place with a huff, almost forgetting to return the friendly smile, just to have Sherlock indifferently place the solved Rubik's Cube in his hands, muttering, "Here, mess it up."

* * *

The stay at the Snow Centre had been a rather long one. They had at least spent the past two hours with interrogations and collecting evidence. In fact, Sherlock had done so, while John had been a mere appendix, now and then asking short questions himself or jollying the informants around when they threatened to be vexed by the detective's bumptious style of conversation. Meanwhile Sherlock had spent his time with barging in offices, pulling faces and occasionally muttering "Idiot" under his breath before leaving again. The most awkward occurrences had been those in which Sherlock wouldn't even bother asking any questions, claiming to know at first sight that it would turn out to be a waste of time.

Managing to obtain statements hadn't been easy in the first place, as most people had been unwilling to chat away the latest facts. Originally they had all believed that whoever broke in that night had not found what he had been looking for as it had appeared that nothing had been stolen. At Sherlock's explanation and at his absurd assumption that the burglar had merely broken in for snow, they had found themselves baffled and some had even been slightly amused. But due to Sherlock's popularity in the media, they had let him proceed, had finally shown the detective around and had accepted his curious enquiries.

One woman in particular had been of great help. Firstly, she had lead them to the only unsecured door – being the back door to the office building – upon which's lock Sherlock had discovered traces of a smooth and skilled break-in. Secondly, she had confirmed Sherlock's provisional presumption that the office building was not under nightly video surveillance and that there was a connection passage from the offices to the empty ski slope. She had additionally informed them that her colleague, named Alison Potts, was away sick since last week and suffering from burn-out.

"She will see no one and speak to no one…" she had said, whereon Sherlock had noticed a small poster on the office's pin board.

Since Miss Potts was gone, the woman had said upon Sherlock's question that the poster had been hanging there, however she did not know who had put it there and neither could she say why. At that, Sherlock had taken Alison Potts' business card, just to make sure. The poster was advertising a hotline, arranged for people who were at risk of suicide.

* * *

The sky was already darkening and John had lost every sense of time. Hadn't he worn a watch, he wouldn't have guessed that it was past four o'clock and while musing about the time, he wondered why he even cared. With Sherlock Holmes by his side, time was of little value, as he lived his life so fast that the world around anyone he would happen to drag along was a blur.

"Well then, what have we got?" John asked to break the silence and to keep himself from shivering, since it was indeed rather cold.

Wrapping his coat around his lean body, Sherlock replied, "First of all, we know that the burglar must have been familiar with the area. It is to be assumed that he might have gone skiing before so he would know exactly where he could take the snow without being seen by the security cameras in the hall. Furthermore, he broke in at that small back door. He must have known that it was unsecured, I suppose that he has been told…"

"So, you believe-"

"Yes… which makes Miss Alison Potts a suspect. He must have terrorised her pretty much for her to be in such a state of shock and anxiety."

Sherlock's explanations were interrupted by the act of hailing a cab but as soon as he had stated the address ("So, we aren't going to get a Christmas tree?") and closed the door, he continued, "I can claim to know for sure that nobody in the office of the Snow Centre has any relation to the crime itself or to the victim."

"Okay," John said, considering his question answered.

"But then, who is the murderer?" Sherlock muttered to himself, his eyes staring blankly through the windscreen of the cab. "There must be a connection and I am missing it… What is it? _What?_ "


	10. Black Stories

_Chapter X. Black Stories_

It was an evening a few days later that John was on his way home from work, his usual bag slung over his shoulder, one hand clumsily clutching a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, the other holding an umbrella above his head. It made it difficult to keep his bag in place since it kept threatening to slide down his shoulder, but it had gotten incongruously warm the day before which resulted in the clouds above weeping thick drops of rain down upon London's streets instead of the snow he had still been hoping for. Well, there was still time until Christmas Eve, not all hope was lost just yet.

It did prove a challenge, though, to get the door to 221B to open whilst juggling his bag, the parcel, the umbrella, and the keys to the flat. John had uttered quite a selection of colourful, half-suppressed swears before he at last succeeded in finding refuge from the torrent the rain appeared to have transformed into during the last five minutes. He cursed his luck, for had he just been a little faster, he might have avoided the worst of the downpour yet, but as it was he now found himself decidedly wetter than he was comfortable with.

Shaking out his umbrella and trying not to let his mood veer towards the morose, he quickly started to ascend the stairs, his ears already picking up on the sound floating through the stairway from behind the closed door of their shared flat. Apparently, his partner had taken up the violin once again, and he seemed to be actually playing a melody instead of making random assaults upon the innocent chords.

What he was playing, though, was still fit to at the very least confuse John a little.

"Seriously, Sherlock?" he asked upon finally entering the flat, with a faint incredulous undertone. "Could you have possibly found something _less_ suitable for the season?" Not that he truly minded, of course – Sherlock was a fairly good player, and mercifully also knew John well enough to hear the amusement in his exasperated voice.

True to form, he was ignored entirely while Sherlock continued to draw the bow over the violin's chords, calling forth the lively notes of Vivaldi's _Spring_ which therefrom accompanied John as he shed his damp coat and provisionally dried off his equally damp hair, having set down the parcel on the living room table. Eventually he simply let himself sink onto the couch and fiddled with the packing paper while he waited for Sherlock to finish his little concert.

"I brought biscuits," he announced when Sherlock set aside his instrument and glanced over at him with a lifted brow. Motioning to the by now opened little parcel, he then patted the free space next to him. "I think you'd throttle me if I attempted to bake here while you're on a case, and I'm not sure me baking would be a good idea anyway, so..." John could cook basic meals and with a bit of concentration might even manage something a little fancier, but he was fairly certain that Christmas biscuits were far out of his league.

He smirked when Sherlock wordlessly flopped down next to him and snuck away two of the small sweets, examining them for a moment before slipping the first between his lips. John felt a tiny flicker of relief when he didn't object to the taste.

"So... _Spring_ , of all things?" He nodded to where the violin had been placed while taking a biscuit of his own.

Sherlock frowned. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, all in all. It's just not exactly a Christmas tune."

"I don't like _Christmas tunes._ They are preposterous, and I refuse to waste my time learning to play them."

Sherlock's expression was one of deliberately overdone disdain, and John chose not to point out that he had in fact played Christmas songs on more than one occasion over the last years. "You could have played _Winter_ though. I mean, nothing against _Spring_ , it just always reminds me of waiting loops when I try to call some company or so. 'You're on hold, please hold the line, I'm sure one of our lazy and uninterested employees will have time for you at some point during the next three hours, here, listen to Vivaldi's _Spring_ in the meantime, perhaps it'll drive you crazy before we actually have to talk to you...'"

Sherlock actually snorted at that, throwing him a look. "I suppose you had to make some phone calls during work today." John didn't dignify that with an answer, and after a second Sherlock simply smirked knowingly. "Well. While we're at calling people, could you pass me my phone? I think it was ringing a while earlier, but I was playing the violin."

And naturally he could not be bothered to pick up his phone while playing the violin. Not even after he was finished with that. Shooting Sherlock a dirty look despite knowing it wouldn't be taken notice of, John heaved himself up again, regretful at having to leave the warmth of the couch, if only for a moment. Often he had already vowed to himself that he would have revenge on Sherlock for these things that happened much too regularly, but so far he had not come up with an idea on how to carry out said revenge. Perhaps Molly would help him, or maybe Lestrade. He would have to ask about that.

* * *

John returned to the couch carrying Sherlock's phone in one hand and a colourful, shiny package in the other. He recalled having seen Molly handing it away at their latest hospital visit. „Did you really carry that around in your pocket all the time?"

Sherlock grabbed the phone and glanced at the screen before he set it aside with a derisive snort, his eyes turning heavenwards for a moment. Only when John reclaimed his seat beside him did Sherlock deign to answer the question. "It seems that I did."

The only response he received to that was an exasperated shake of John's head, at least until he grabbed the package right out of John's hands. "Sher– don't tell me you want to unwrap it now. Just because you had a somewhat acceptable reason to unwrap Mycroft's doesn't mean-"

"I have a reason," Sherlock interrupted smartly, sliding his finger underneath the sticky tape that kept the paper in place. "It's from Molly, and she will without a doubt want to know what I think of it soon after Christmas Day. Now, if I don't like it, I will need a few days to come up with something suitable to say to her, since you have repeatedly told me that apparently the simple truth is not acceptable in such situations."

While he was speaking, Sherlock had entirely ignored John's half-hearted words of protest and deftly removed the shimmering wrapping paper to examine the packet's contents. John finally accepted the futileness of his objections with a sigh and made do with simply taking another biscuit.

He was still chewing when Sherlock thrust a small black box under his nose. "Before I open this, please tell me you've heard of these so-called 'creepy mysteries' and they're worth my time."

John shoved Sherlock's hand away softly so he could actually focus his eyes on the box, and swallowed his biscuit before he spoke. "Black Stories... mmh... I think they're some kind of guessing game. You get a bit of information and have to figure out the full story by asking questions that can be answered with 'yes' or 'no', that kind of thing..." He thought of the package Molly gave him, for a moment. But, no. _He_ was a reasonable adult, he could wait until it was actually time. The package would stay on his desk until Christmas Eve.

He reached for the wrapping paper that lay discarded on the low table, together with a small, hand-written card. Sherlock was probably planning to throw it away with the paper, but John wanted to at least read it before it disappeared, so he took it and glanced at it. _There is always a case,_ it said in Molly's handwriting, just a tad squiggly. _Love, Molly._

Smiling to himself, John looked up at Sherlock again, who was busily opening and closing the box of the game. "Do you want to try, since you've ruined the surprise anyway?"

* * *

"Oh for heaven's sake, John, it's not that difficult!" Barely ten minutes into their game, Sherlock had already reached the end of his patience. God knew what had possessed him that he had actually insisted for John to be the first to figure out a story by guessing, it should have been clear right from the start that he would not be satisfied with John's skills of deduction. "You're asking the wrong questions, the wrong questions _entirely_ , and you're assuming things that I never said were true! This is hopeless. He's a _beetle_ , John!"

"Toby is... a beetle?" That didn't seem to make much sense at all. "You mean, a beetle, like, a bug? Or a Beatle, a band member?" There most certainly hadn't been a Toby among the Beatles though. And John also saw no reason why a member of the Beatles should have died after a man stopped talking – which was all the information the riddle had given him.

Sherlock appeared to be on the edge of despair, judging by the look on his face. "A band member, seriously? A beetle. A bug. Small, scuttling thing with six legs. Oh, this is _hopeless_ , truly."

John furrowed his brow. "A bug named Toby that died once some guy stopped talking. Uh... was the person talking also a bug?"

He was met with an incredulous stare for a few seconds, and then Sherlock put the card which held the riddle back in the box, ignoring John's request to at least give him the solution. "This is pointless, it's not even a crime, not to mention you'd take another hour to even get close to figuring it out. Read the solution later, you ask me something now."

With that, he placed the small box which held fifty cards with riddles in John's hand. John sighed, and began rifling through the cards, scanning riddle and solution alike until he found something that was bound to be fun. Suppressing a grin, he extracted the card and set the box down on the table.

"I've got one. 'The superintendent who examined the corpse was astonished. He had never seen anything like this before.'"

"They could just as well just write 'something happened, figure out what' on these cards, the amount of information would be about the same," Sherlock grumbled, but John could see a glint in his eyes that showed he was at the least a little intrigued. "Was it a human corpse?"

"Yes."

"No bugs, then. The superintendent was 'astonished'... at the person the corpse once was, or at the state of the corpse?"

"That's not a yes-or-no question."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, drawing his next words out like he was talking to someone mentally challenged. "Was the dear superintendent 'astonished' at the person him- or herself?"

"...no."

"At the state the corpse was in, then?"

"Yes, I guess you could say that..."

"Were they murdered?"

"Yes."

"Of course they were murdered, the question is how. And he was 'astonished', not disgusted or repelled, just astonished, so there likely wasn't much blood or any severed body parts and decay wasn't the problem either, all of that the superintendent would likely have seen before... So it was something surprising but not particularly revolting, I would wager. In what way can a corpse be astounding without being revolting? Maybe the corpse is less decayed than it should be. How long has the person been dead?"

"That's... not mentioned here." John was barely able to follow the rapid mutterings of his friend. He appeared to be attacking the game's puzzle with the same vigour as he did any real case.

"So it's not that. Maybe something's on the corpse, something the killer left there... some kind of decoration perhaps? Did the killer leave decorations?"

"Not... precisely..."

"But it's something on the corpse, not the corpse itself, and it's something the killer left there. Yes?"

"Yes. Both yes."

Sherlock's fingers snuck away another biscuit and then withdrew to tap idly against each other right in front of his lips as a delighted grin spread over his features.

* * *

Approximately seven minutes and nineteen seconds later, Sherlock was levelling John with a thoroughly unamused look. John had to bite his lip to keep his laughter in check. "Is something the matter, Sherlock?"

"Yes. You are. You realise that a fictional man being murdered with nicotine patches is not going to make me stop anytime soon, don't you?"

John nodded, keeping his face not even remotely straight despite his efforts. "Sure. ...seeing your face once you figured it out was worth it, though."

A snort. "Ridiculous. Well, ask me another one, maybe I'll get some inspiration for our dear Miss Spiegelmann..."

John obediently reached for the box and chose another card, this time on random. He was still chuckling silently to himself as he read out the sparse information on its front.

"Because Carlos was hungry, he had to die a horrible death."

Heaving a great sigh, Sherlock shook his head, looking at the card as if it had just grown a mouth and said something utterly preposterous. "This is absurd. Entertaining, but absurd. Was he poisoned?"

John hurried to scan the small paragraph on the back of the card. "Poisoned... uh, no. He wasn't."

"Too easy anyway. Ah, let's see..."

* * *

Five minutes later and Sherlock had figured out that Carlos was a dog, that the owner had forgotten to feed him but the dog hadn't starved, that he could see the food, wherever it was, and that he probably died trying to get to it but hadn't hit his head trying to get through a glass door or anything and that dying from a hit on the head wasn't enough to count as a "horrible death" anyway.

He had also determined that the owner was living alone, in a comparatively big house, that he left for work early and pretended to work more than he did because he was likely to have an affair with his married secretary who only engaged with him because she hoped to get money out of it, which he knew but didn't care because she was witty enough to make up for those intentions. And he had decided that the secretary was actually lesbian and had another affair Carlos' owner knew nothing about. None of this could be found on the back of the card or was in any way relevant to the story, but that didn't seem to deter Sherlock in the slightest.

After John had somehow managed to get him back on track, he was now guessing at Carlos' cause of death, having determined that he could figure out how that cause came to happen could still be deduced afterwards.

"Beheaded?"

"No."

"Drowned?"

"No."

"Suffocated?"

"...no."

"Caught in a snare that lay in front of the food with his hind leg so he dangled upside down until all the blood had run into his head and he died?"

"What- no! Why would there be a snare in front of his food?!"

"Perfectly reasonable, but since it's not the case, irrelevant. Did he freeze?"

"No..."

"Burn to death?"

"No- wait, yes! Yes, that's it. Now tell me how that happened."

"He burned to death... hmm... maybe he– oh!" And with that, Sherlock slowly steepled his fingers, the tips of his forefingers softly touching his lips, and sank into a grave silence, his eyes cast towards some invisible distance John knew nothing about.

John's eyebrows seemed to crawl up his forehead on their own accord while he wondered if this could still be attributed to their game or if something entirely else had started happening whithout him noticing. Either way, after almost a minute of silence from Sherlock (who hadn't been silent for more then five consecutive seconds since they had begun their game), John opened his mouth to enquire about what was going on, only to have Sherlock suddenly regain animation and speak right over him.

"Alyssa Craigston! Of course, _that's_ why he used the snow, it's so _obvious_... he's a serial killer, how could I not have noticed..."

John sat frozen on the couch while Sherlock had jumped up and was now pacing briskly back and forth through the room. "Er... what?" This quite certainly had nothing to do with the dead dog Carlos.

Sherlock waved a hand at him impatiently. "Alyssa Craigston was found dead about four years ago, burnt to death between the remains of a house that burned to the ground, the general assumption was suicide under the influence of heavy drugs which was deemed confirmed after they backtracked her calls. I knew it wasn't a simple suicide, there was too much to it, but nobody was interested and they wouldn't let me see the crime scene and the evidence – and now he's done it again, maybe even more often since then, how did I not _realise_... John, the dog probably switched on the cooker while trying to reach the food bowl or something, I don't care, I have to check – what time is it, it's probably too late to get someone reasonable on the phone, he wouldn't be there so late..."

And with that, Sherlock scurried out of the room, leaving John behind with a box of mysteries, a thoroughly confused expression on his face, and the almost certain knowledge that he wouldn't see Sherlock anymore today.


	11. Setting Up a Plan

_Chapter XI. Setting Up a Plan_

Christmas was approaching fast, and while Martha Hudson wasn't the kind of person to get all too worked up about getting things clean for expected visitors, she still took pride in the fact that her flat was nicely decorated at least, and would assist in spreading the happy, fuzzy mood that was generally associated with Christmas. The smell of fir branches, mulled wine, and freshly baked biscuits, the warm glow of fairy lights, the cheerful sound of Christmas songs from the radio and chiming bells from practically everywhere, all those were things to be found in her flat, and to be appreciated by any guest she might receive.

Except the guest bore the surname "Holmes" in which case she had long ago decided not to fret over any kind of negative, indifferent, or downright rude reaction. Mrs Hudson knew how to pick her battles, oh yes, she did. Most of the time.

Her current battle was of an entirely different sort and consisted of trying to figure out the workings of the tiny digital camera she had acquired after her old one had finally given out after many years of faithful service. Of course, the new one had a lot more functions and certainly the pictures it took were easier to access, and John had told her that also the quality was probably improved (not that she could tell), so it had definitely been a good idea to get it, she needed to take pictures of things, after all. When she used her phone for that, they tended to get blurry, and the pictures she took for Christmas were more important than the daily documentation of her breakfast habits, so she needed the camera. But since she and Marie Turner had played around with it a little yesterday, after a few cups of mulled wine, the camera now refused to take pictures right away, instead counting down ten seconds with a quite vexing beeping sound before doing so, and on top of that it insisted on taking a whole series of pictures once the countdown was over. Mrs Hudson now had an impressive collection of entirely random pictures of things like the floor, the ceiling, her kitchen counter, and her slippered feet, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out how to make the bloody contraption behave normally again.

Of course, the moment when she thought she might have found the solution, there was a startlingly loud bubbly sound from somewhere in the room that made her completely lose track of her train of thought. For a few more seconds, she stared at the small screen uncomprehendingly as she tried to hold on to the fleeting idea she'd had, only to finally give in with a sigh and place the camera aside on her kitchen table to get back to later. She needed it for Christmas, after all, so she mustn't forget about it.

Now, the bubbly sound couldn't have been anything but her phone... if only she knew where she'd left it... Why did it make bubbly sounds anyway? That wasn't her ringtone, her ringtone was one of those nice little melodies the phone had offered, and that sound... was that the sound of someone sending her a text message? Nobody ever did that, but why else would the phone make so short a sound? Hopefully it wasn't broken.

It took a few minutes of searching around, during which the bubby sound rang out twice more, until Mrs Hudson had finally located her phone beneath a cushion on the sofa, though she had not the faintest idea how it had ended up there. She really hoped the sound wasn't a sign for it being broken, and it seemed that in the name of the Christmas spirit, it had obeyed and merely received a message indeed. Or three, she supposed, looking at the screen with a small frown. _Now who would..._

A few quick taps on the right keys later, and she had the answer to that question. Really, she ought to have thought of that before. Her eyes carefully traced the little letters on the screen, there was no need to wonder what her tenant might want from her if she could simply find out by reading his messages.

 _Mrs Hudson,  
I require your help for a matter of utmost importance. If you would assist me?  
SH_

Well, that was quite vague.

 _Mrs Hudson. I did mention it's important?_

And apparently, Sherlock had still not learned the virtue of patience. Though perhaps that wasn't actually surprising, all things considered.

 _You're worse than John. Don't tell me you've misplaced your phone and I could just as well be talking to the wall._

Oh, really now. The boy would do well to remember the manners she knew for a fact his parents had taught him.

Nonetheless, she would see what she could help him with. She just hoped it was nothing that would involve her having to touch or even just see any of the severed body parts Sherlock had made a habit of keeping in various places in the flat. Oh, surely she could forbid him, as his landlady, but she doubted it would have much of an effect on him if she tried, and she had little interest in threatening to send him packing in case he didn't comply. She knew all too well that she would never have the heart to do that, and if she did, she would only end up missing him dreadfully. So entertaining the notion really was of no use, and she would do well to just disregard such ponderings for the moment and dial Sherlock's number instead.

* * *

"I really can't talk right now," Sherlock's voice came from the speaker, slightly tinny, as soon as the connection was established. And then, before Mrs Hudson had even had a chance to get a word in herself, there was a quiet _click_ and then the beeping sound that indicated that the call had been ended from the other end of the line.

Huffing exasperatedly to herself, Mrs Hudson shook her head at the phone, which only two seconds later made the same bubbly sound it had emitted earlier, followed by a single word popping up on the screen.

 _Texting._

Now, this just wouldn't do. She refused to hold a full conversation by hitting the tiny keys of a mobile phone. It would take forever and would only result in Sherlock as well as herself getting impatient, and the matter could certainly be solved much more easily by simply talking to one another.

Therefore, a few minutes later she found herself carefully pushing open the door to 221B. She would never understand why her boys kept leaving it ajar. Anyone could come in like that! And the air from outside wasn't exactly pleasant in winter either. Not that it was any of her business, oh no, but she couldn't help but worry a little. Sometimes, these two were like children who needed looking after.

Sherlock was obviously the only one home right now, pacing agitatedly back and forth between the kitchen entrance and the sofa, his mobile phone loosely in one hand and the regular house phone (which she had never before seen in use in this flat, it was quite a surprise) in the other, pressed against his ear. He hadn't noticed her yet, and she thought to wait until he had finished his call.

Looking around, she once again had to wonder how anyone could live in such a state of disarray. The table was covered in papers, a few used tea cups were scattered all over the room (one even seemed to have landed in the fireplace, and considering the somewhat suspicious red colouring of the leftover contents in the cup, she was certainly not even going to ask about that), and for some inexplicable reason, all the cushions from the couch had been removed and neatly piled up right next to the door in what appeared a quite daring attempt at a tower. One of the walls couldn't even be called such any longer for it had been refunctioned into a large pin board. It was covered in a vast amount of papers, newspaper clippings, pictures of different locations as well as pictures of people, some of which definitely weren't dwelling on this Earth anymore. Among them, in the middle of a (very small) cluster of things that were collected under the title "suspects", was a photograph of a middle-aged woman, labelled "Alison Potts" in bold letters. The picture had been crossed out with black marker. Strangely, next to it there was a little card that looked to be taken out of a game, if she saw it correctly. The sheer amount of information, all connected by thick black and red lines and a whole lot of woolen thread, was making her head spin, and she returned her gaze to Sherlock, just in time to be taken aback by his heated words.

"Yes, I _know_ this is the suicide hotline, but I don't- no, that's not why I'm calling, for god's sake!" Right in that moment, he finally spotted her, standing in the door and staring at him with a wide-eyed, startled expression. His forehead creased and he made a shooing motion with his hand, effectively sending her scampering backwards again with an impatient look, which she wasn't certain whether it was directed at her or the person he was talking to. _Suicide hotline...?_

But he had sent her away, and while she might not be the brightest beacon of virtue there was, eavesdropping on other people's conversations was not one of her habits. She would ask him when she returned; he had wanted something, after all.

* * *

Despite her resolve to not fret about what she had heard, she spent the next ten minutes wringing her hands anxiously, instead of hoovering the living room as she had wanted to do. When finally the bubbly noise resounded once more, with Sherlock enquiring as to _What did you want?_ , she would have sprinted up the stairs had she been a few years younger. Alas, as it was, she simply hurried as much as she could while still appearing a trifle dignified.

The door was still ajar, as she had left it, and so once again she simply entered with a short knock on the door frame. Sherlock stood with his back towards her, apparently staring intently at his wall-turned-pinboard. At her discreet little cough, he whirled around, blinking at her as if he hadn't heard her entering.

"You asked for my help with something," she said ere he could start to talk and confuse her with his quick and dizzying words. "But, Sherlock... is everything alright?"

The look he cast her way made her feel decidedly uncomfortable. Sherlock's expression seemed to convey an utter lack of understanding for her question, as if what she had asked was the most preposterous thing to ever assault his ears. "What? Of course I'm alright."

"Well, it's just because I heard you talking on the phone earlier, and-"

"Oh dear." He actually had the audacity to roll his eyes at her. "Don't be absurd. I'm on a case. Now, as to why I texted you – I need something. Biscuits. I need Christmas biscuits."

She wasn't sure she had understood him correctly. She was inclined to believe his explanation (if one could call it that) for the phone call, but – biscuits? But he was already becoming impatient, and she decided to speak quickly, at least. "What... what for? And why-"

Sherlock breathed out harshly through his nose. "Before you ask – no, I can't just buy them somewhere and I'm not asking you to buy them for me either. I'm asking you to _make_ them for me." She wasn't entirely certain, but she was getting the impression that in some way, he was nervous about... something. Surely not about asking her, he had once asked her questions about lingerie and bedroom toys without so much as a blush. To this day she still didn't know what that had been about. "Also, no, I can't make them myself. I don't have time, and John wouldn't approve if I accidentally made the oven explode. Just do it, I have a plan..."

* * *

The explanation following that sentence was enough to make Mrs Hudson's head ache from all the details and questions Sherlock had casually mentioned. Much more information given and asked for than she could take in at once. But she was pretty sure that she had understood at least the gist of it.

That didn't mean she agreed with every part of it, though. "Why don't you come down with me and we make them together? It's not that difficult, and you're clever enough to pick up on it, aren't you? You'll have mastered it in no time at all. And I'm still not your housekeeper, no matter whether you think I am or not."

Sherlock studiously ignored her in favour of removing a few papers from the wall and changing the order of a few others.

"Really, Sherlock. You should do it yourself. I need someone to stop me from nibbling away most of the dough anyway, I always end up with only half of it actually being made into biscuits..."

"Ah, no. No, I really don't think that's a good idea. Between the two of us, it's likely that none of it would actually end up in the oven, and it's much safer when you do it on your own. Not to mention faster. And I'm sure you don't actually want me anywhere near your kitchen after you've seen what I'm keeping in mine."

Mrs Hudson was careful not to follow his meaningful gaze towards the kitchen door at that, fearful of what she might see if she looked. She had come across a few eyeballs too many for her liking already.

"Oh, alright, you impossible man," she finally sighed with a scolding note in her voice. "Have it your way. But then don't dare complain about the taste or the number, do you hear me?"

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of it." His smile was disarming despite the fact that it was exaggeratedly bright and wide on his lips. "I'll be going then, text me when you're done."

She shook her head fondly, mentally already going over the recipes in her possession so she could decide which would be the most suitable ones. Sherlock was already on his way out, slipping on his coat while already half out the door. Mrs Hudson followed him more slowly and closed the door behind her.

She wouldn't scold him for his curtness or complain about him ordering her around, but the least he'd do in return was fix her camera. She would ask him about that later. Certainly the thing was less of a puzzle for Sherlock than it was for her.


	12. True Christmas Spirit

**AN:** _With this we have fulfilled our duty, sincerely hoping that we managed to make a few souls out there crack a happy smile. Thanks to all of you who have followed and favourited our story, it means a lot to us! Merry Christmas!_

* * *

 _Chapter XII. True Christmas Spirit_

The 24th of December was, quite shamefully, grey and cloudy with the heralds of rain. Not only did this turn the city into a bleak black-and-white image, but further did it serve to prevent John's mood from adapting to the Christmas spirit. The holiday had additionally brought many an unpleasant surprise, as John had learned right after waking. He had taken the opportunity to make up for his constant lack of sleep and had therefore stayed in bed for much longer than he usually would, only to find that Sherlock had already left the bed and gone out by the time John made his way to the kitchen to get some tea. Normally, Sherlock would not be up and about at that time of the day, if not for some unexpectedly thrilling incident or an unforeseen turn of the tides. Still, as it commonly occurred, Sherlock had neither deemed it necessary to wake John and tell him that he was needed for an investigation nor had he left a note that would state where he had disappeared to. Yet, in his state of huff, John had strictly refrained from calling Sherlock and enquire on his whereabouts as he was quite certain that Sherlock momentarily would not appreciate such an interference.

Above all that, there was another issue that was quite a millstone to John's mood. He had found that he was more distressed than anticipated at the fact that they had never gotten around to getting a Christmas tree or decorating the flat with fairy lights or knick-knack, which left it bare and dusty as always.

While John was gloomily sipping his tea, he was close to blaming it all on his flatmate, who had successfully kept him from practicing aforementioned Christmas customs in order to collect evidence for his case. It should not have surprised John that, according to Sherlock, an intriguing case had undoubtedly highest priority and would require to be treated as such at all times.

* * *

When Sherlock returned later that day, he didn't say much besides uttering his astonishment at the fact that John actually hadn't left the flat to go out on his own but had instead decided to stay sitting in his chair and read the hours away. John's response was a sharp sigh, obviously indicating the irritation that Sherlock's statement had caused. However, John still didn't quite understand why Sherlock's inappropriate behaviour still upset him so much as he kept reminding himself repeatedly that he should be used to it by now. He therefore omitted pointing out that being left alone half of the day was not what he would refer to when speaking of a merry Christmas holiday.

John simply watched his flatmate as he shed his shoes and then went straight to the bedroom which he appeared to do without a reason. Still, John didn't call after him to demand an explanation, but kept his gaze upon his shoes, attempting to deduce a few things himself. The soles were framed with mud and additional brown stains covered them from tip to heal, which suggested that Sherlock certainly must have walked across the lawn. Had he stayed on the pavement, the shoes would still have gotten slightly wet, but a pattern like that could only come to be on boggy, muddy soil.

Naturally, Sherlock took his time in the bathroom where he had resorted to soon after leaving the bedroom and upon returning dressed in clean and dry clothes, he instantly turned to the task of painstakingly polishing his shoes without saying another word to John. The silence soon reached a level that John could not tolerate any longer and standing in the kitchen, where he had just poured himself another cup of Christmas tea, he sternly addressed him, "Sherlock," an unbelieving laugh escaped John's throat, when Sherlock didn't even lift his head at John's attempt of speech.

"Okay," John was in a state that almost allowed him to find Sherlock's attitude near to amusing, "your cases are important to you, I understand. There would clearly be something wrong if I didn't understand after all that time of living with you… But _this_ … _this_ is going decidedly too far and I would kindly ask you to tell me, where the hell you have been and why it couldn't possibly wait until…" John stopped with an exasperated groan. He knew only too well that Sherlock didn't dedicate nearly enough meaning to holidays or trivial traditions to put back a case on that account.

Sherlock, however, didn't look up from his work but, quite uninflected, he muttered, "You know well that I am on the verge of solving a mystery and I would likely confuse you with my reasoning. So we might just as well agree that all you need to know is that it was all for the case and nothing more." At Sherlock's factual, superior tone, John felt his anger increase and only by a hair could he keep himself from losing his temper. As it was, he simply gave Sherlock another audibly displeased "Okay" to make clear that they were done.

* * *

In the afternoon the dense clouds finally started pouring a cold mix of rain and snow over London, coating the city in a wet and dismal mist. If not for the sparkling golden decorations that adorned the streets and several windows of the opposite houses, John wouldn't even have noticed that it was Christmas. As mentioned earlier, they hadn't gotten a Christmas tree and neither had they made any other preparations. Again surprisingly though, Sherlock did not keep up his reticence but had instead agreed to playing another game of _Black Stories_ , all the while successfully pretending that it wasn't actually Christmas Eve. Yet, a strange tension seemed to have seized him and John was unable to tell whether it was suppressed excitement and impatience or unjustifiable but genuine discomfort that nearly bordered on regret.

The sky had long darkened when their game was interrupted by the obtrusive ringing of Sherlock's phone which caused him to jump to his feet in less than a heartbeat to answer the call. It was utterly seldom that John would see Sherlock react to an incoming call with such high alert. The phone pressed to his ear, he walked towards the kitchen, occasionally humming or mumbling an agreement, his eyes brightening minutely. John didn't bother listening to the conversation, knowing well what he would hear. Instead, he silently collected the playing cards and after he had put them back in the box, he slowly closed the lid. He had a dim notion that their game was over, which, to be true, filled him with deep disappointment.

"John, take your coat…" Obviously, John had missed the end of the phone call, as Sherlock was now standing by his side again, faintly smiling down at him. John turned his head to face his flatmate with a frown.

"What makes you think I want to come?"

"Oh, you will want to come," said Sherlock, his smile turning brighter, "We are going back to Hyde Park, rest assured that there will be quite a feast for our eyes… and it is said to be pretty dangerous too…" With a wink, he took a few steps back to pick up his coat from the chair he had flung it over, before whirling it around his shoulders in a swift motion. He must certainly believe himself irresistible, whereupon John was in fact quite disinclined to get up from his armchair, knowing that it would be unwise to reassure Sherlock in such a situation.

"But it's bloody Christmas, Sherlock!" John protested vehemently, hoping to appeal to Sherlock's reason.

"Indeed it is!" Sherlock rejoiced, already in the process of leaving.

"Damn it!" John cried out and taking his own jacket, he followed him downstairs. He should have known before that his attempts of persuading Sherlock to be reasonable would prove futile.

The broad sidewalks were empty, as not a soul would think of going out in that wet a weather and except for the cars of a few latecomers who were likely still on their way to friends or family members, their cab was near to the only vehicle on the streets. When they finally reached their destination, Sherlock hurried away in a determined fashion, which compelled John to call after him and remind him, that Sherlock himself had insisted on taking only one umbrella. John should have remembered that Sherlock regularly tended to forget about things like care and complaisance and that it was hence impossible for John not to get a little wet from the rain. At least, so he kept telling himself, the rain was a mere drip and not as much of a downpour as it could have been and further it was quite a remarkable event that Sherlock had cared to bring an umbrella at all. The one he had eventually chosen was even the rather big umbrella Mycroft had gifted him with this year, which provided quite enough space for both of them to find shelter from the rain. On the other hand though, John was forced to link arms with his companion for their walk to be smooth and comfortable and while he was firstly not at all in the mood to do so, Sherlock secondly tried to stride ahead in such a quick pace that John could hardly keep up. Yet, driven by anger, he hurried along wordlessly.

It was typical that Sherlock would never hesitate to start an inquiry, regardless of the time, the date or the weather. But it was simply misfortune that today, it was all at once – dark and late, actually Christmas Eve and raining. John wondered why he hadn't simply refused to come, but he supposed that this was Sherlock's kind of Christmas spirit and he had therefore felt the obligation to please him, which had forbidden him to heartlessly defy his flatmate.

"Where are we even going?" John asked peevishly after some time of walking in silence. Sherlock's answer remained a simple "You will see soon enough" whereupon he found himself left to guess, his favourite guess being that there possibly had been another gruesome murder.

While they kept following foreign paths, the rain luckily became lighter and lighter until it almost stopped entirely, which inspired Sherlock to close the umbrella and John to instantly let go of his companion's arm. Soon it turned out that Sherlock had led John to an alley of fir trees in a variety of sizes which were together creating a thin strip of wood on both sides of the path. When they came to a halt, Sherlock asked John to look to his right and what he spotted there was enough to put him in a state of surprise and paralysation that lasted a few amazed blinks of his eyes.

On the edge of the copse stood a smaller fir tree, its frail branches hanging down from the heavy moistness of December rain and from the additional weight of beautifully painted ball ornaments, wooden figurines, tin bells that were chiming softly in the cold breeze, golden nutshells, glass angels and china stars. Words failed to come to John at the sight of it, still his mouth went agape in an attempt to express how utterly touched he was by this loving gesture. However, Sherlock for once didn't give him a clue, as he appeared to have fallen into a grave stillness, unsure of what to make of John's emotion.

"Did you… did you do that?" John asked, as soon as he had regained his voice. "Is that what you've been doing?" Sherlock's response was a stiff nod which clearly indicated that he still couldn't tell if John's reaction was actually an approving one and that he was, as an effect, a little nervous about it. As John's positive astonishment still didn't allow him to speak, he had to resort to other means of showing approval, so he took a step closer and casually wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle to gently hug him from the side. "Thank you, Sherlock…" he whispered cordially and indeed, it served to ease the tension.

Considering that Sherlock had hereby mostly repaid the discomforts he had caused and eventually kept his promises made it impossible for John to keep up his anger and upon realising what Sherlock had truly spend his time with while he had left him on his own, he nearly felt bad about his earlier attitude. Even though this present could not possibly make up for everything Sherlock had done to appal John in the past weeks, it still brought forth the decision to save his huff for another time.

Finally, John opened the firm hug he had enveloped his companion in and still with audible traces of speechlessness, he said, "It is truly beautiful…" At that, Sherlock cast a quick, blank glance John's way before uncomfortably facing the tree again, contemplating it in a concentrated fashion and then furrowing his brow, as if he had noticed something that went against his liking.

"How did you…?" John started, unsure of how to complete the sentence. Yet, Sherlock seemed to understand, as a twitch went through his spine and his brows slightly moved up on his forehead.

"Well, it was fairly easy," he remarked, sounding a little too confident for it to be entirely true, "By looking at various pictures of Christmas trees and asking Mrs Hudson about decorating, I was able to determine a pattern for the arrangement that similarly coloured Christmas balls would require so their layout would still be deemed pretty. I further counted the available objects of decoration and estimated how many of each category I can use so the standard distance between the items would not differ too much. Then I-"

John interrupted him with a chuckle, "Sherlock…" For a second, they looked at each other without displaying any expression, "Don't ruin it now… please…" He smiled, shaking his head with unbelieving amusement at Sherlock's deeply rational approach.

When he turned his head heavenwards, he noted that the veiled sky was now speckled with soft, small snowflakes that came falling towards the ground, where they melted against the dampness of the pavement and were consumed by the muddy, wet grass.

"Good timing" John said, smiling brighter while he squinted his eyes against the snow that fell, light as feathers.

"Oh yes, impeccable timing!" Sherlock confirmed, looking as though a plan had worked out perfectly. "So, let's celebrate, shall we?"

At that remark, Sherlock reached in the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out two items, from which John was able to recognise one as the present Molly had given him at the mortuary – still wrapped, just as he had left it – while the other one was a small, foreign paper bag, decorated with Christmas colours. Both was held out to John.

"I thought, you might want to unwrap your presents already."

"Oh," John hummed, once again taken by surprise. How lovely it would be, he thought to himself, if Sherlock were to behave as thoughtful at every given opportunity and not just on a day that was generally referred to as "special".

While unwrapping Molly's present with care, he said with a hangdog expression, "I am sorry that I can't give you anything right now, I have left your present at home, of course…" The paper revealed a collection of detective short stories by Edgar Allan Poe to which John reacted with a quick smile.

"That's alright," said Sherlock, his mind elsewhere, curiously peeking at John's gift. "Detective stories…" He frowned. "Now, how did she get that idea? They hardly ever are good…"

Soon after, they were sitting on a nearby park bench, facing the nicely and quite scientifically decorated fir tree. In his foresight, Sherlock had taken into account that the benches would, thanks to the weather, be dreadfully wet and would soak their clothes in no time. To go against this inconvenience, he had therefore stored a waterproof picnic blanket in a plastic box right under the tree which they had now spread on the park bench to suit their comfort. The brightly coloured paper bag that Sherlock had held out to John earlier had appeared to be slightly crumbled Christmas biscuits of three different sorts, which tasted remarkably stunning. Upon John's question if Sherlock had made them himself, however, Sherlock negated his suspicions and informed him that Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to bake them in his stead since it would be, as he added, quite a danger to let him tinker with the oven. Sherlock additionally told John to view the biscuits as their landlady's Christmas present for him.

"So," John eventually said, chewing a biscuit, "Did you actually solve your case?"

"Quite so," Sherlock responded.

"Care to explain?"

At first, Sherlock simply gave him a wry smile. The mentioning of the case seemed to have taken a burden from his shoulders, his features lighting up with childlike pride. Seeing this euphoric spark in his companion's eyes told John that this now solved mystery was undoubtedly the best Christmas present Sherlock could have received, even if on the account of Miss Sandra Spiegelmann, who had sadly become the victim of that violent murder that had brought Sherlock so much delight.

"It all occurred in a way you likely wouldn't have guessed, not even in your wildest dreams," Sherlock said and after swallowing down another biscuit, he elaborated, "Our serial killer was working at a suicide hotline, you know, that kind of job where they pick up the phone and listen to all that boring suicide babble and then talk the person calling out of said idea… Now, he was focussing on young women who were trying and failing to process a terrible childhood trauma. After enquiring about whatever trauma tormented them, he would do everything to make their greatest fears come true just to witness them breaking down in front of him and then kill them. In the case of Miss Spiegelmann, he used the snow, as she had lost her sister in a snow slide due to her own carelessness and she could never quite cope with her guilt. Quite elementary, now that I look back on it…"

"Of course," said John, his smile audible in his voice.

At a cold breeze that blew a few, soft snowflakes in his eyes, he shivered and threw a quick glance at Sherlock, who was sitting quite a distance away from him. He had entwined his gloved hands in his lap and his legs had a firm stand on the ground, while he stared ahead, a dreamy look on his face.

"Would you mind moving closer?" John asked, as another shiver shook his frame.

Sherlock jumped slightly as if John had pinched his side but then, without a word, he complied. He moved closer, inch and inch and inch, until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Sherlock's fingers were now tapping a rhythm on his knee just as if they longed for an occupation, whereupon John slid his cold, bare hand in Sherlock's. It caused Sherlock to lift his gaze from the distance and meet John's eyes with a look of minute confusion. His cheeks and nose were coloured faintly red from the cold and it gave the impression that he was blushing. John leaned closer until their lips were almost touching and when Sherlock didn't turn his head, he kissed him. It was a careful kiss that was returned in an insecure, clumsy manner and sadly, it was broken rather quickly.

"Oh, before I forget, I've got news for you," Sherlock said upon pulling back, his tone was hasted, which obviously suggested that he was seeking distraction from what had just happened in order to clear his mind, "We will be seeing my parents tomorrow…"

"Sherlock…" John gave him a growl to which Sherlock responded with an innocent grin. The news were nearly enough to call forth John's earlier huff, had he not pulled himself together, still he could not entirely prevent himself from being a little annoyed. It occurred to be nothing new that Sherlock would prefer to be straightforward when it came to announcements, although John was sure that he could have told him earlier, had he only deemed it worth mentioning. This time at least, John thought, the quite spontaneous change of their schedule didn't get in the way of any of his own plans.

"By the way, what will I get for Christmas?" Sherlock interrupted John's grim thoughts.

"Make a guess," said John, failing to smile.

"A substitute for my broken burette?"


End file.
